Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 https://archive.org/details/inconstablescounOOtomp 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
BT TH8 StAMS <AUTHO% 
 
 Highways and Byways in Hert- 
 fordshire 
 Hertfordshire 
 Marsh-Country Rambles 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 The Complete Idler 
 Selborne 
 

IN CONSTABLE’S 
 COUNTRY 
 
 WITH MANY REPRODUCTIONS 
 FROM HIS PAINTINGS 
 
 BY HERBERT W. 
 TOMPKINS 
 
 LONDON J. M. DENT & CO. 
 NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON fcf CO. MCMVI 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. Introductory ........ i 
 
 II. Beside the Tidal Stour ...... 7 
 
 III. At Dedham . . . . . . . .19 
 
 IV. Flatford Mill . . . . . . . .33 
 
 V. The Valley Farm ....... 42 
 
 VI. East Bergholt . . . . . . . .51 
 
 VII. Stratford St. Mary. ...... 64 
 
 VIII. Boxted and Nayland. ...... 76 
 
 IX. Bures St. Mary ....... 92 
 
 X. The Chapel in the Corn ...... 102 
 
 XI. Sudbury . . . . . . . . .111 
 
 XII. Simon of Sudbury . . . . . . 133 
 
 XIII. Long Melford ........ 144 
 
 XIV. Lavenham . . . . . . . . .159 
 
 XV. “ A Corner in Arcady ” . . . . . .172 
 
 XVI. Hadleigh . . . . . . . . .186 
 
 XVII. A Suffolk Worthy ....... 202 
 
 XVIII. At Brantham . . . . . . . .221 
 
 XIX. Beside the Orwell ....... 232 
 
 XX. The Romance of Harwich ..... 244 
 
 b 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 John Constable ....... 
 
 From the original tinted pencil drawing by himself 
 in the National Portrait Gallery . 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 Dedham Vale, Suffolk ...... 
 
 From the original painting in the Victoria and 
 Albert Museum y South Kensington 
 
 Facing page 8 
 
 Dedham Mill, Essex 
 
 From the original painting in the 'Victoria and 
 Albert Museum , South Kensington 
 
 „ 20 
 
 Dedham Lock, sometimes called the Leaping Horse 
 From the original painting at Burlington House 
 
 „ 3 ° 
 
 Flatford Mill, on the River Stour 
 
 From the original painting in the National Gallery 
 
 „ 36 
 
 Boat-building near Flatford Mill 
 
 From the original painting in the 'Victoria and 
 Albert Museum , South Kensington 
 
 „ 4 ° 
 
 Willy Lott’s House ...... 
 
 From the original painting in the 'Victoria and 
 Albert Museum , South Kensington 
 
 ?? 5 ** 
 
 The Hay Wain ....... 
 
 From the original painting in the National Gallery 
 
 „ 74 
 
 The Valley Farm ....... 
 
 From the original painting in the National Gallery 
 
 „ 86 
 
 The Cornfield ....... 
 
 From the original painting in the National Gallery 
 
 „ 108 
 
XIV 
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 House in which the Artist was Born 
 
 From the original painting in the National Gallery 
 of British Art (Tate) 
 
 The Church Porch, Bergholt .... 
 
 From the original painting in the National Gallery 
 of British Art (Tate) 
 
 The Glebe Farm ....... 
 
 From the original painting in the National Gallery 
 
 The Cottage in the Cornfield .... 
 
 From the original painting in the Victoria and 
 Albert Museum, South Kensington 
 
 View on the Orwell, near Ipswich 
 
 From the original painting in the Victoria and 
 Albert {Museum , South Kensington 
 
 Harwich, Sea and Lighthouse .... 
 
 From the original painting in the National Gallery 
 of British Art (Tate) 
 
 Facing page 124 
 
 +6 
 
 170 
 
 I96 
 
 234 
 
 248 
 
TO 
 
 JOHN W. LINDSAY, D.D. 
 
 MY DEAR DOCTOR, 
 
 YOU HAVE SHOWN KINDLY INTEREST IN THE PRO- 
 GRESS OF THIS BOOK, AND HAVE PERMITTED ME TO 
 DEDICATE IT TO YOU. I CAN ONLY EXPRESS THE HOPE 
 THAT SOMETIMES, IN THE LEISURE MOMENTS OF A BUSY 
 LIFE, YOU MAY TURN ITS PAGES WITHOUT WEARINESS. 
 YOU, AT LEAST, WILL NOT COMPLAIN BECAUSE I HAVE 
 WRITTEN MUCH CONCERNING THE CHURCH YOU LOVE 
 SO WELL. 
 
 H. W. T. 
 
 “ Verulam Southchurch , 
 Essex. 
 
There is no other air in all England to equal that 
 strong air of Suffolk ; it seems to blow right through 
 and through one , and to brush away the dust and smoke 
 of town from all one’s pores with a single whiff of its 
 clear bright purity. 
 
 Grant Allen. 
 
 Those scenes made me a painter . 
 
 John Constable. 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 INTRODUCTORY 
 
 This book is not an essay on Constable and his Art. It 
 is a transcript of impressions, penned, in the first instance, 
 by the wayside. It records a ramble in the Valley of 
 the Stour and its immediate neighbourhood, where John 
 Constable passed much of his life, and where he painted 
 so many of his best known landscapes. I have talked 
 with men who have passed their lives beside the Stour, 
 and whose grandsires were known thereabouts when 
 Constable was living. I have lingered on many spots 
 which he painted. Most of them, as was inevitable, 
 now bear little resemblance to the scenes depicted on 
 his canvas. Cottages have been pulled down ; trees 
 have been felled ; what was once a footpath or lane is 
 now a footpath or lane no longer. C. R. Leslie, so far 
 back as the year 1840, found the scenery of The Glebe 
 Farm — the subject of a finished picture and of a sketch 
 which hang together in the National Gallery — so greatly 
 altered as to be hardly recognisable. But the Stour 
 still winds between willow-shaded banks, crossing the 
 Vale of Dedham to meet the Orwell and the open sea 
 at Harwich, and bearing on its bosom the few barges 
 
2 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 that now ply to and from Sudbury, the little Suffolk 
 town where Gainsborough was born. 
 
 The Valley of the Stour contains much of interest apart 
 from the story of Constable and his pictures, and I have 
 set down whatever seemed worthy of record, whether 
 of wayside incident or local tradition. But the title of 
 this book is no misnomer. No name is more indelibly 
 associated with the country which it describes than the 
 name of Constable. His knowledge of the fair and fertile 
 country around the Stour was more intimate than that 
 of Gainsborough. It inspired a large proportion of his 
 work. In later life, at Hampstead and elsewhere, his 
 heart was often in Suffolk. Standing before his easel 
 he saw, as in a mirror, his native county, and in fancy 
 lingered beside what Stevenson so aptly styled “ the 
 lilied lowland waters of that shire.” Constable, early 
 in his career, felt that he could paint his own homeland 
 as he could paint no other. “ You know,” he once 
 wrote, “ I have always succeeded best with my native 
 scenes. They have always charmed me, and I hope 
 they always will.” They charmed him to the end. 
 
 Mr. Frederick Wedmore, in an article on Constable’s 
 “ English Landscape,” makes a significant remark on that 
 fine series of engravings by David Lucas. “ Collectors have 
 of late recognised it ; connoisseurs are en train to appraise 
 it at its proper value ; its Gospel is being preached.” 
 He mentions, moreover, that if we except a little-known 
 series of soft ground-etchings by Cotman, Constable’s 
 “ English Landscape ” is one of three voluminous records 
 of accomplished work, kept in black and white, by great 
 painters of landscape. The first was the “ Liber Veritatis ” 
 of Claude ; the second the “ Liber Studiorum ” of Turner ; 
 
INTRODUCTORY 
 
 3 
 
 the third, as readers may remember, covers “ the ground 
 that the mind and the brush of Constable were accus- 
 tomed to traverse.” The plates were issued separately, 
 the earliest during 1829 ; they were published as a whole 
 in 1833, four years before the death of Constable. Several 
 subjects chosen for that series were from landscapes in 
 Constable’s country. 
 
 Mr. Wedmore’s remarks upon our slow recognition of 
 the “English Landscape” may be applied to Constable’s 
 work as a whole. We know how grudgingly his contem- 
 poraries bestowed any praise upon his pictures, and we 
 have to confess that since his death those pictures have 
 won their way but slowly to any large measure of esteem. 
 They have, however, come into their kingdom at last. 
 Once, alluding to a large picture which he intended to 
 keep, or to send to the Gallery at two hundred pounds, 
 he predicted that for such paintings the dealers would 
 in future get five hundred pounds. That prediction has 
 been more than verified. About the year 1820 he painted 
 Stratford Mill on the River Stour ; it was bought by his 
 friend, Archdeacon Fisher, for one hundred guineas ; 
 in 1895 it was purchased by Messrs. Agnew for eight 
 thousand five hundred guineas. 
 
 Constable, as an exponent of landscape painting, 
 may be adequately studied in our public collections. 
 According to a list before me, which I recently verified, 
 there are in the London galleries nearly five hundred 
 pictures from his easel, including drawings and sketches ; 
 most of them are at South Kensington. In the National 
 Gallery there are twenty ; they are fairly representative 
 of Constable at his best, and few pictures in the British 
 School arrest the eye more surely than his. Several of 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 4 
 
 his largest and most characteristic landscapes are there, 
 and their positions show clearly that the Directors of 
 the Gallery are fully sensible of the esteem in which those 
 landscapes are now held. The Hay wain, his largest 
 picture in the Gallery — one of the largest he ever painted 
 — occupies a central position. Recently, lingering before 
 
 it, I noticed how much earnest attention it elicited. 
 Even a palette, once Constable’s, is carefully cherished. 
 Presented by Miss Isabel Constable in 1887, it is framed 
 in one of the doorways of the British School. 
 
 A few incidents, landmarks in the story of his growing 
 reputation, may be noted here. Constable died during 
 the night of March 31, 1837. That his work was warmly 
 appreciated in France even during his lifetime is matter 
 of common knowledge. Pichot states that the land- 
 scape school of his country was widely influenced by 
 Gainsborough and Constable before the year 1830. 
 Subsequent writers, notably Burger, freely acknowledge 
 Constable’s influence on French Art, nor do they fail to 
 point out how small, in their judgment, his influence 
 had been in England. Their judgment, in the opinion 
 of Lord Windsor, is just. “ Up to 1830,” he writes, 
 “ there is little evidence of Constable’s influence on 
 English landscape painting, and though there is plenty 
 of it now, it has come less directly from him than coloured, 
 as it were, through French spectacles.” Ruskin, so deeply 
 concerned to defend Turner as to spare scant praise for 
 Turner’s contemporary, penned, however, a few words 
 in the first volume of “ Modern Painters,” which almost 
 make amends for his adverse criticisms elsewhere in 
 the same work. After disparaging Constable’s draughts- 
 manship, not wholly unjustly, Ruskin adds, “ Yet with 
 
INTRODUCTORY 
 
 S 
 
 all these deductions, his works are to be deeply respected, 
 as thoroughly original, thoroughly honest, free from 
 affectation, manly in manner, frequently successful in 
 cool colour, and realising certain motives in English 
 scenery with perhaps as much affection as such scenery, 
 unless when regarded through media of feeling derived 
 from higher sources, is calculated to inspire.” 
 
 Several books on Constable and his art have been 
 published in England during the last three decades, 
 inspired, in part, by C. R. Leslie’s “ Memoirs of the Life 
 of John Constable, R.A.,” first issued in 1843. These, 
 so far as I am advised, or am able to judge, are sane and 
 shrewd estimates, almost wholly satisfactory from their 
 individual standpoints ; those by P. G. Hamerton, G. M. 
 Brock-Arnold and C. J. Holmes are too well known, and 
 too highly appreciated, to permit of any commenda- 
 tion from me. We may turn to a still more recent 
 volume for a judgment, at once generous and discerning, 
 on the genius of Constable. Lord Windsor, whose 
 “ John Constable, R.A.,” was published in 1903, concludes 
 in words that may safely challenge contradiction. “ He 
 was a great artist. He was original, he was true to Nature, 
 at a time when originality and truth were very rare 
 indeed ; and if he was not, in addition, always sublime, 
 if he was at times somewhat coarse in expression, he was 
 never vulgar nor cheap, and, let it be admitted, his 
 influence on modern landscape art has been greater than 
 that of any painter of the nineteenth century.” 
 
 As I write, there comes to hand yet another volume 
 entitled “ Constable,” from the pen of Mr. M. Sturge 
 Henderson. The volume is illustrated with many 
 photographs from Constable’s paintings and sketches, 
 
6 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 for the most part admirably reproduced ; and is notice- 
 able for a carefully written chapter on Constable’s 
 lectures. Mr. Henderson, however, tells us little that 
 cannot be found in earlier books on the artist or his art. 
 This could hardly be otherwise. So much has been 
 written on Constable that it is difficult to impart freshness 
 to any sketch of his life or work ; and for this reason I 
 cherish the hope that some will perhaps turn willingly 
 from the picture gallery or the art critic to ramble with 
 me amid the scenes that so largely inspired his art. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 BESIDE THE TIDAL STOUR 
 
 I walked towards Manningtree at the time of wheat 
 harvest. Reapers had been busy in the fields, and long 
 lines of shocks, browning in the August sun, were pleasant 
 to the eye. I had taken the train at Shenfield, in the 
 heart of Essex, and the prospect from the carriage window 
 as the landscape rolled away had whetted my desire for 
 the open road. Places of interest were passed as we 
 neared Colchester. At Witham I thought of Gerarde, 
 that once serviceable herbalist, who records how, by the 
 wayside hereabouts, he had found the “ small green- 
 leaved Hounds’ Tongue ” very plentiful. Passing Kelve- 
 don, Dissenter and Anglican alike should remember 
 with pride the name of Charles Spurgeon, who was born 
 in the village, and whose published sermons fill fifty 
 volumes — volumes of homely Christian counsel, cherished 
 by innumerable souls in the uttermost parts of the earth. 
 Then, as we neared Marks Tey, I saw, a little westward 
 from the line, the partly timbered tower of St. Andrew’s 
 — an interesting church, with an oaken font at which 
 children were baptized so far back as the days of Henry 
 the Seventh, and a window to the memory of Henry 
 Compton, sometime rector here, and afterwards Bishop 
 of London. The name of Compton suggests memories 
 of Ray the naturalist, who was born and buried at 
 
8 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 Black Notley, some ten miles off, and to whose memory 
 Compton and others erected a monument in the 
 churchyard there. 
 
 ^glt is more to my present purpose that we passed 
 places associated with the name of Constable, in whose 
 footsteps I was to tread. For close to Kelvedon the 
 village of Feering looks down upon the Blackwater 
 Valley. Here Constable stayed in the summer of 1814, 
 executing the water-colour drawing of Feering Church, 
 which is now in the Whitworth Institute at Manchester, 
 and roaming southwards as far as to Hadleigh Castle, 
 which he subsequently painted in the picture so well 
 known to us from Lucas’s engraving for the “ English 
 Landscape.” Presently, too, we came within sight of 
 Colchester, where Constable sketched — in pencil — St. 
 Mary’s Church. To our left lay the Vale of Dedham, 
 which he depicted on many a canvas. Indeed, the whole 
 stretch of country between Chelmsford and Ipswich is 
 fairly typical of the scenery beloved by him. “ What 
 did Constable paint,” asks Mr. Wedmore, “ but the 
 England of every day — the coast as well as the field, the 
 woods and tableland, the Downs and heath, the cottage 
 and church-tower — the England over which there swept 
 for him such changeful skies as no one but himself had 
 ever fully understood — had ever half as faithfully and 
 subtly chronicled ? ” 
 
 It was a morning of unsullied beauty. Across a blue 
 sky white clouds moved swiftly before a westerly breeze. 
 The wayside near Manningtree Station was bright with 
 willow-herb ; butterflies — walls, meadow-browns and 
 large heaths — flitted from flower to flower. At the 
 timber wharf, on the south bank of the Stour, the air 
 
Dedham Vale, Suffolk 
 

 
BESIDE THE TIDAL STOUR 
 
 9 
 
 came fresh and pungent from the weed-strewn estuary. 
 A glance showed that the river was at its uttermost ebb. 
 White wings of gulls rose here and there as a train rumbled 
 over the iron bridge that spans the Stour, but the birds 
 dropped again as the noise subsided, to dabble in the 
 ooze as they had done before. Jefferies, in “ Mind under 
 Water,” wrote of the indifference of rooks to a passing 
 train ; which he attributed not to hereditary experience 
 of its harmlessness, but to their intelligence. Even a 
 Jefferies may generalise too widely. In point of fact, 
 birds of all kinds rise at the approach of a train more 
 frequently than not. When they do not rise we notice 
 the fact — a sure proof of the contrary rule. In 1722, 
 when Defoe made his tour of the Eastern Counties, 
 “ he had a mind to view the harbour at Harwich,” so 
 he took a boat up the Orwell towards Ipswich, sending 
 his horses round by way of Manningtree, where they 
 crossed the “ timber bridge over the Stour,” called 
 Cataway Bridge. The bridge has long been supplanted, 
 but Defoe placed its use on record in a few words, and 
 it lives in history for all time. Truly the pen is mightier 
 than the sword. 
 
 I reached Manningtree on a Sunday morning. The 
 fact, indeed, was obvious from the aspect of the streets. 
 Matrons and maids were abroad, not distastefully arrayed 
 in many colours ; they made a brave show as they walked 
 to church or chapel. Our English Sunday is, I am told, 
 a source of perennial wonder to wayfarers from the 
 “ Godless Continent.” There, it is true, Mass is much 
 attended ; but poor folk may throw dice on the cathedral 
 steps, before and after their devotions, as they do in 
 Italy, and exhibit no unusual spectacle. In England, 
 
IO 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 despite years of growing protest against the spirit of 
 Sabbatarianism, there is little organised amusement on 
 Sundays, and less gambling. The National Sunday 
 League may boast that its members convert the Day 
 of Rest into a day of travel ; a Spurgeon may lament 
 that the Lord’s Day is deemed a fit opportunity for the 
 making of pigeon-houses and rabbit-hutches ; but the 
 conscience of thousands is still tender on the subject 
 of Sunday observance. A new edition of the “ Book of 
 Sports,” though duly authorised by the hierarchs of 
 the Church, would be eyed with strong disfavour. In 
 these, as in other matters, we elect to sin in secret, if at 
 all ; our more public delinquencies trouble us in the 
 night watches as they troubled Bunyan. Is the piety 
 of village or town in inverse ratio to its size ? I have 
 often thought so. I will hazard a guess that nearly 
 everybody in the streets of Manningtree that morning 
 was bound for a place of worship. Small is that town 
 which cannot boast, in the language of the old gazetteers, 
 “ several chapels for Nonconformists.” The churches 
 and chapels of many a village or town would accommo- 
 date the entire population with seats ; but ten thousand 
 places of worship, each holding five hundred persons, 
 could hardly contain the inhabitants of London and its 
 immediate suburbs. In short, the larger the city, the 
 more boldly it discards the religious conventionalities — 
 the more frequently it indulges, on sunny Sundays, in 
 those recreations which Byron deprecated in a poor 
 stanza. 
 
 “ A lay sermon ? ” If you please. The text was 
 suggested, as I have shown, by the Sabbath aspect of 
 the streets of Manningtree. I turn to other topics. 
 
BESIDE THE TIDAL STOUR 
 
 ii 
 
 The church in High Street is devoid of interest, save for 
 a few memorials. The baldness of its interior would 
 irritate a Ritualist ; Mr. Miller Christy styled it “ a 
 miserable building,’’ as well he might. Pausing at its 
 iron gateway, which abuts upon the street, I saw, through 
 the open door, a mural monument which would have 
 delighted the eyes of that learned agriculturist, Trip- 
 tolemus Yellowley. For Triptolemus — who needs no 
 introduction to readers of the “ Pirate ” — read no 
 vernacular bard save Thomas Tusser, whose “ Hundreth 
 Good Pointes of Husbandrie ” he knew by heart. And 
 Tusser is remembered here in Manningtree ; for, on the 
 opposite side of the Stour, he lived awhile at Brailam 
 Hall, Catawade, now included in the parish of Brantham. 
 
 I cannot dismiss Tusser with a passing reference. 
 Born at Rivenhall in Essex, about 1527, he played and 
 studied at Eton, where, as he himself records, he was 
 savagely flogged by Nicholas Udall, author of Ralfh 
 Royster Doyster , # our earliest comedy : 
 
 From Powles I went, to Aeton sent 
 To learn straightwayes the Latin phraise, 
 
 Where fifty-three stripes given to mee 
 At once I had ; 
 
 For faut but small or nene at all, 
 
 It came to pass thus beat I was ; 
 
 See, Udall, see, the mercy of thee 
 To mee, poore lad. 
 
 After some years at Cambridge and London, Tusser 
 lived at a farm at Catawade. Of the details of his life 
 we know little. He loved music, and was a chorister 
 at Wallingford and at St. Paul’s Cathedral ; but is less 
 
 Reprinted in the “Temple Dramatists. ,, 
 
12 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 remembered for his taste in music than for his quaintly 
 expressed verses, of which he wrote many. His “ Hun- 
 dreth Good Pointes of Husbandrie,” published in 1557, 
 was written at Catawade. Afterwards modified and 
 enlarged, its final version, first issued in 1573, was en- 
 titled “ Five Hundreth Pointes of Good Husbandrie 
 united to as many of Good Wiferie.” It was often 
 reprinted. 
 
 It has been doubted whether Tusser practised as 
 shrewdly as he preached. It was long supposed that 
 neither farming nor versifying brought him money. 
 Scott was of opinion that Tusser’s verses, “ so useful to 
 others of his day, were never to himself worth as many 
 pennies.” In support of this, Scott quotes a verse from 
 Tusser’s own pen : 
 
 My music since has been the plough, 
 
 Entangled with some care among ; 
 
 The gain not great, the pain enough, 
 
 Hath made me sing another song. 
 
 Scott, moreover, probably knew the epigrams of 
 “ H. P.,” published in 1608, under the quaint title 
 “ The More the Merrier,” one of which commences : 
 
 Tusser, they tell me, when thou wert alive, 
 
 Thou, teaching thrift, thyself couldst never thrive. 
 
 But Tusser’s will, published in 1846, shows that he was 
 comparatively well-to-do in later life. 
 
 In later life Tusser knew many changes. Leaving 
 Catawade, he lived for some time at Ipswich and else- 
 where in East Anglia, finally removing to London. 
 There, in 1580, he died, and was laid to rest at St. 
 Mildred’s in the Poultry. The church perished in the 
 
BESIDE THE TIDAL STOUR 
 
 13 
 
 Great Fire ; but Stow, in his invaluable “ Survey,” pre- 
 served Tusser’s epitaph. Here, on the church wall at 
 Manningtree, that epitaph is copied, and the spelling 
 modified : 
 
 Here Thomas Tusser clad in earth doth lie 
 Who sometime made the points of Husbandry ; 
 
 By him then learn thou may’st, here learn we must 
 When all is done we sleep and turn to dust ; 
 
 But yet through Christ we hope to heaven to go, 
 
 Who reads his books shall find his faith was so. 
 
 The poems of Tusser have long been neglected, for he 
 had not the literary skill that imparts life to the trivial 
 or commonplace. But his verses were for many years 
 in great vogue, and when, in 1723, Lord Molesworth 
 published his work on “ Agriculture and the Poor,” 
 he urged that Tusser should be read in schools. Tradition 
 states that the above epitaph was written by the poet 
 himself ; his monument at Manningtree affirms that 
 he “ Possessed a true Christian spirit,” and that his 
 “ Excellent maxims and observations on rural affairs 
 evince that he was far in advance of the age in which 
 he lived.” He had, at least, his share of fame. We are 
 apt to forget how few persons are remembered three 
 centuries after their death. 
 
 “ Manningtree,” wrote John Norden, “ is a little 
 fisher towne, and hath a small market.” It lies in a slight 
 hollow, beside the tidal Stour, and sheltered by hills 
 to the east and west. It forms a pleasant picture from 
 the higher Suffolk corn-lands on the north ; I have seen 
 it, too, from the marsh-lands below Brantham, its gables 
 sharply defined by the westering sun. But I saw few 
 features of interest as I strolled towards Mistley, almost 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 H 
 
 an adjoining suburb. Here, by the old cemetery, I 
 chatted with a man who leaned over a fence in his shirt- 
 sleeves, looking across the park-like country near Mistley 
 Green. He was a native of East Bergholt ; his life had 
 been largely passed among the villages of Suffolk, and in 
 the cornfields beside the Stour. He said he had often 
 reaped for several weeks in Suffolk, presently crossing 
 into Essex to go harvesting again, for the harvests of 
 Suffolk were “ in his day ” almost gathered ere cutting 
 began in Essex. He owned his fondness for the sickle, 
 which was good enough for him ; why should it not 
 find favour now ? He knew much about Constable — 
 so much that his talk surprised me ; he boasted that 
 the artist was born, like himself, at East Bergholt, a fact 
 which he evidently feared I might forget. He knew, 
 he said, many “ small Constables ” of undoubted authen- 
 ticity, in private collections in Essex and Suffolk ; and 
 thought Constable perhaps painted as many pictures 
 as Turner, “ only you don’t know them all.” The heat 
 grew greater ere we parted ; across the road, on the 
 lichen-freckled bricks that surround the graveyard, wall 
 butterflies, eyed and spotted, fanned their brown wings 
 in the sun, restless rovers as they are. The man rambled 
 in his talk, as old men will, a mere phrase suggesting fresh 
 topics ; but he had the rare gifts of urbanity and content- 
 ment, and somehow, I hardly know why, he reminded 
 me of the leech-gatherer with whom Wordsworth talked. 
 
 We parted, as chance acquaintances must, and I will 
 own I was sorry when the parting came. I climbed the 
 hill to a spot whence I could look down upon the malting- 
 houses and quayside of Mistley. It was a noble prospect. 
 The tide had turned as I talked with the man from East 
 
BESIDE THE TIDAL STOUR 
 
 15 
 
 Bergholt; the waters of the Stour had crept landward 
 until riverside craft rode at anchor once again. Beyond, 
 eastwards, the wooded slopes of Stutton rose above 
 Holbrook Bay. Thus far, to the quay at Mistley, come 
 coast vessels of goodly size, bringing coals, and taking 
 timber, or hay, or the fat produce of the Essex wheat- 
 fields. When I got down to the quay the Jane and 
 the Pride of the Stour , from Harwich, were alongside, 
 close to the Grape Vine Inn ; they were going seawards 
 on the morrow. Above Mistley, the river, even at flood 
 tide, is shallow ; ships of over one hundred tons can 
 with difficulty reach the timber-wharf at Manningtree. 
 Ships, I take it, have always been delightful in the eyes 
 of youth. Go where you will among our seaports, or 
 our riverside towns, and you shall see boys loitering on 
 the quay, watching the work upon the barges. At 
 Mistley the large leisure of Sunday is the ship-lover’s 
 opportunity. The barges that come and go are so 
 closely scrutinised that every feature must surely be known 
 by heart, and every bargee hailed as an intimate ac- 
 quaintance. Shelley, sailing paper boats, was truly 
 typical of our race ; Longfellow recorded an experience 
 dear to many when he wrote : 
 
 I remember the black wharves and the slips, 
 
 And the sea tides, tossing free. 
 
 Here, by the riverside, the romance of history speaks 
 eloquently too. Standing on the southern border-line 
 of East Anglia, as, according to some topographers, we do 
 at Mistley, we overlook the confines of what was once an 
 almost separate country, isolated by fen or river or marsh 
 from the heart of England. It was long the land of the 
 
1 6 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 Iceni ; fair-haired robbers from Sleswick and Friesland 
 found it easy of access ; they plundered it more frequently 
 than any other part of England. Indeed, they came hither 
 in such numbers that East Anglia was almost exclusively 
 a Danish settlement until its recapture by Edmund of 
 Wessex. We hardly know when those islanders, as we 
 may describe them, became divided into North-folk and 
 South-folk ; but topographical features are older than 
 human history, and the river boundaries of Norfolk and 
 Suffolk had much of their present configuration many 
 centuries before the Icenic or Roman or Danish warriors 
 crossed those waters. Well does Tennyson remind us 
 that men come and go, but rivers flow on — by poetic 
 licence — for ever. The draining of the fens altered 
 more than aught else the boundary aspects of Suffolk, 
 but left untouched the broader water-courses. Long 
 before East Anglia knew a king, “ the Ouse ran north- 
 ward between swampy levels to the great flats of the 
 Wash, while the Stour flowed eastward through flooded 
 meadow-land to the vast muddy tidal wastes about 
 Harwich and the Naze.” 
 
 It is interesting to trace a river from source to sea. 
 “ The Stour,” writes Dr. J. J. Raven, “ is the queen of 
 Suffolk waters.” It is spelt Stowre by Norden, who, 
 after praising Essex as “ moste fatt, frutefull, and full of 
 profitable thinges,” adds that “ Suffolke be more highlie 
 comended of some.” The eastern part of the river 
 was commonly called Manningtree Water, probably even 
 when Norden wrote (1594) ; Defoe, more than a century 
 later, wrote that seamen hardly understood an allusion 
 to the “ River Stour.” Norden’s map of Essex, a marvel 
 of imaginative ingenuity, shows the Stour with many 
 
BESIDE THE TIDAL STOUR 
 
 1 7 
 
 fanciful twists and turns ; but its actual course is even 
 more tortuous than Norden supposed. It rises in the 
 chalk-land of South-West Suffolk, not far from New- 
 market. Fed by tin y tributaries, it winds towards 
 Kedington, where the Barnardistons sleep beneath their 
 altar-tombs in the old church. To the Barnardistons, 
 as tradition states, we owe the word Roundhead ; one of 
 them, Sir Samuel, had “ a very fine seat, as also a decoy 
 for wild ducks,” near Ipswich ; another, Sir Nathaniel, 
 was ridiculed for his invariable phrase, “ Sirs, shut the 
 doors, lest wee get cold.” Two miles below Kedington 
 the Stour touches Essex at Sturmer — the mere by the 
 Stour — then, turning sharply to the west, it reaches 
 Wixoe, near what was once a Norman church. Soon the 
 river passes Clare, an old town full of interest, where 
 William Dowsing, that notorious iconoclast, found 
 “ iooo superstitious pictures.” At Clare, where the 
 Stour unites with Chilton brook, stood the castle of the 
 Clares — now, writes Mr. W. A. Dutt, “ a conical mound 
 and two baileys.” Here, as at Manningtree, the river, 
 or at least its tributary, was formerly named from the 
 immediate vicinity ; for the Anstis MS. states that the 
 stream at Poslingford, near Clare, was called Ceuxis, 
 or Clarus. The lordship of Clare, like so many lordships, 
 was a gift from the Conqueror, who bestowed it upon 
 Richard FitzGilbert, whose son took the name of De 
 Clare, and was the traditional builder of the castle. 
 
 The Stour, still hardly more than a streamlet, winds 
 from Clare towards Pentlow, where the old flint church 
 is visited as one of the six round-towered churches in 
 Essex. The parish of Pentlow lies on the Suffolk border, 
 sixty-five miles from London, in a quiet country, not 
 
 B 
 
1 8 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 without natural charms. In the rectory garden, some 
 fifty years ago, was built an octagonal tower with spiral 
 staircase ; from its summit, as folk at Pentlow never fail 
 to point out, you may see, on clear days, more than forty 
 churches. The village of Cavendish is on the opposite 
 side of the river ; here, in the parish church, is one of 
 those ancient chests, with decorated panels, so beloved 
 of Antiquaries, and a copy, in black letter, of Jewell’s 
 “ Apology,” which I dare be known to covet. From 
 Pentlow, the Stour, presently turning southwards, passes 
 between Liston and Long Melford, and approaches 
 Sudbury through broad meadowland, where its waters, 
 half choked with plants, touch the old town at the flour- 
 mills, near Walnut Tree Lane. From Sudbury, the Stour 
 flows through the heart of Constable’s country to the sea 
 at Harwich. Through that country we are to ramble, 
 in thought, in the remaining chapters of this book. 
 Often at the riverside, we shall sometimes turn to upland 
 villages of interest — villages where men lived worthily, 
 and are remembered for their worth, and where ancient 
 church or dwelling-house still links us to that past which 
 is so romantic. An old land like our own is interest- 
 ing throughout its length and breadth ; the annals of 
 England are no meagre chronicle, but a library, with a 
 page, at least, ever open before our eyes. Let us cherish 
 the belief that the smallest village is worthy of study, 
 and that anywhere, when asked if our surroundings have 
 a story to tell, we may reply, “ Sir, a whole history.” 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 AT DEDHAM 
 
 The other day, standing before Constable’s Dedham 
 Mill , in the Victoria and Albert Museum, I remembered 
 how often the neighbourhood of Dedham was painted, 
 with loving and exquisite fidelity, by the same artist. 
 So far as memory serves me, Constable depicted some 
 portion of the Vale of Dedham — in finished painting 
 or rough sketch — more frequently than any other subject, 
 saving only the immediate vicinity of his birthplace — 
 the church and village of East Bergholt, and the Stour 
 at Flatford Mill. At South Kensington, in addition to 
 the picture named — so quiet in tone, so admirable in 
 disposition, so suggestive of Hobbema in its delineation 
 of foliage — there is an unfinished painting and an oil 
 sketch of the same subject, besides sketches of other 
 scenes at Dedham. A Dedham and a Dedham Vale 
 hang in our National Gallery ; a Dedham Lock is at 
 Burlington House ; other pictures and sketches similarly 
 entitled are in private hands. The scenery around 
 Dedham was, and is, worthy of such honours : it recently 
 exercised the pencil of Mr. Joseph Pennell ; it inspired 
 some charming paragraphs from the pen of Mr. W. A. 
 Dutt. “ I cannot wonder,” wrote Mr. Dutt, “ that 
 Constable spent days and weeks together on the upland 
 heights overlooking this lovely vale. From his earliest 
 
20 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 days he was familiar with it, but never tired of see- 
 ing and painting it, and the more he did so the more 
 beautiful it seemed to him.” Mr. Dutt’s allusion 
 to upland heights can, indeed, only be pardoned as 
 fervent hyperbole, elicited by an East Anglian’s 
 partiality towards his own romantic land. We may 
 compare it with Gilbert White’s veneration for 
 that “chain of majestic mountains” — the Sussex 
 downs. 
 
 Cattle, dun and mottled, were feeding on the fat 
 pastures beside the Stour as I rambled from Manningtree 
 towards Dedham. The morning had been hot even for 
 August ; all living things seemed conscious of the heat 
 of the afternoon, and a man who had fallen asleep by 
 the wayside, his head upon his arm, was, as it seemed 
 to me, seasonably engaged. My way led me along 
 footpaths, and over plank bridges. Tributary streamlets 
 were edged with long spikes of purple loosestrife ; in 
 narrow, twisting lanes that alternated with more open 
 footpaths, the yellow agrimony displayed its blossoms, 
 now fully open almost to the topmost bud. Willows 
 shivered olive-like with every breeze ; moorhens moved 
 warily among the rushes, or lurked beneath the fragrant 
 water-mint as I passed. Such scenery was surely in 
 Grant Allen’s mind when, in an essay on “ The Celt in 
 English Art,” he alluded to Constable and other “ English 
 men of the plains ” who were Teutons in spirit at least, 
 and whose art was “ of the marshland, marshy.” But 
 lowland landscape lends itself to the purposes of art 
 no less adequately than hillside or mountain summit. 
 The scenery around Aldborough, not many miles from 
 Dedham, was depicted in words very effectively by 
 
Dedham Mill, Essex, 
 

AT DEDHAM 
 
 21 
 
 Grant Allen himself when he wrote “ Kalee’s Shrine ” and 
 “ This Mortal Coil.” 
 
 Here, as I rambled near the south bank of the winding 
 Stour, I remembered Ruskin’s remark that Constable 
 was partial to subjects of a “ low order.” Much as I love 
 Ruskin’s work, and deeply as I revere his memory, I can see 
 no point in such criticism. Rigorously applied, it would 
 condemn almost the whole art of Hogarth ; it would 
 reject most of Morland ; it would look askance at Wilkie. 
 It is, indeed, about on a par with that outcry against 
 “ low ” subjects which Goldsmith ridiculed in “ She 
 Stoops to Conquer.” Ruskin, perhaps wisely, did not 
 name the paintings that provoked his censure ; I cannot 
 think they were Dedham scenes. But this is a digression. 
 Soon after passing under the railroad I saw among the 
 trees towards the south the tall square tower of Dedham 
 church. There was no mistaking it ; so often had I seen 
 it on a canvas by Constable. I may, however, point out 
 in passing, that the church tower in the background of 
 the Cornfield , in the National Gallery, is not, as many 
 have supposed, that of Dedham. In point of fact, it 
 was put into the picture solely by artistic licence, for it 
 never existed. The picture was painted on the Suffolk 
 side of the Stour, and from a point which commanded 
 no view of Dedham church — nor of any other. For 
 confirmation of this, readers may consult a letter written 
 by Constable’s son to the Art Journal , in 1869. 
 
 A holiday spirit was abroad when I reached the town 
 of Dedham. Cyclists had ridden in from other towns 
 and other counties ; many foresters sauntered here and 
 there in the sunshine ; a band from Colchester was play- 
 ing in the small square opposite the Marlborough Head. 
 
22 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 I did not, at the first glance, find Dedham so old nor so 
 quaint as I had expected ; many shops and inns are of 
 modern appearance, and only a few dwelling-houses in 
 the main street are really ancient. And yet, as we know, 
 Dedham is old enough, as you may see if you saunter 
 around the town as well as through it, and peer into inn 
 yards, or consult the list of vicars that hangs inside the 
 church, near the south porch. That list takes us back 
 for more than five hundred years, and gives the names 
 of John Chapman and Stephen of Bungay, and John 
 Ancy — worthies who were vicars here so long ago that 
 hardly a man of all their contemporaries figures in the 
 history of Dedham, in oral or written tradition. Farther 
 back — groping, so to say, in the twilight of history — 
 we find it recorded in Domesday Book that Dedham 
 was owned by a Saxon named iElfric, who is believed to 
 have fallen at Hastings. There was a mill here at the 
 time of the Norman Conquest, when the manor was 
 given by the Conqueror to one Roger de Ramis. Other 
 owners of Dedham are historically interesting. The 
 De Stutevilles, a doughty family, held the manor for 
 many years prior to 1330; then we find the name 
 of Robert de Ufford, Earl of Suffolk, who fought at 
 Poictiers, and whose son, dying without issue, left the 
 property to the Crown. The name of a subsequent lord 
 of Dedham is linked with the name of Geoffrey 
 Chaucer. In Stratford St. Mary Church, hard by, the 
 arms of Chaucer are quartered with those of the De 
 la Poles, one of whom became first Duke of Suffolk and, 
 apparently, married a grand-daughter of the poet. 
 
 Some curious references to Dedham may be found in 
 a volume just issued by the Royal Historical Society. 
 
AT DEDHAM 
 
 23 
 
 In 1593 there was published in London, by John Wolfe, 
 a tract which is partly reprinted in that volume. Its 
 original title ran : “ Dangerous Positions and Proceedings 
 published and practised within this Hand of Brytaine 
 under Pretence of Reformation and for the Presbyteriall 
 Discipline.” Dr. R. G. Usher, of Harvard, has pointed 
 out that although this tract was originally anonymous, 
 “ it was and has been unanimously attributed to 
 Richard Bancroft.” Bancroft was well known as chaplain 
 to Archbishop Whitgift and as one who had exposed the 
 authorship of the Marprelate Tracts, and there seems 
 no reason to question his authorship of the “ Dangerous 
 Positions.” With this Tract the Royal Historical 
 Society has published the Minute Book of the Dedham 
 Classis, and the two publications throw interesting 
 side-lights on the religious history of Dedham — indirectly 
 as regards the “ Dangerous Positions ” and directly in 
 the case of the “ Minute Book.” 
 
 To read that Minute Book is to see the making of 
 Congregationalism in Essex. The original manuscript, 
 a large folio, is in the handwriting of Richard Parker, 
 who became vicar of Dedham in 1582, and had much to 
 do with the government of the town. He was, appa- 
 rently, secretary to the local Classis — i.e ., a body of 
 ministers representing twelve parishes — and from notes 
 of its meetings he wrote the volume now for the first 
 time printed. Its pages are full of interest. Parker 
 tells us that the Classis met on the “ first Monday after 
 the first Sunday of euery moneth,” the appointed time 
 being “ at eighte of the clocke in the morninge.” First, 
 a portion of Scripture was “ briefly handled ” by an 
 elected speaker ; prayer was then offered ; after which 
 
2 4 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 sundry matters were discussed, especially such as con- 
 cerned the furthering of the Gospel. At the first meet- 
 ing of the Classis in Dedham (it had previously met at 
 Barfold on December 3, 1582), the question of Lord’s 
 Day observance was discussed, as also the even more 
 momentous question as to how far it was lawful for a 
 Pastor to read in the “ booke of comon praier.” This 
 latter topic was again discussed when the Classis met at 
 Parker’s house on January 13, 1583, and two of its 
 members, Henry Sands of Boxford and William Tay of 
 Dedham, were deputed to read the Prayer Book, and see 
 what portions could be used “ with a good conscience.” 
 The little band of militant theologians seems to have 
 waxed bolder at each successive meeting. 
 
 Church government by “ classical ” ordinance, as 
 exercised at Dedham, affords striking proof of Milton’s 
 dictum — “ New Presbyter is but Old Priest writ large.” 
 On one occasion, the “ ancients ” of the congregation 
 at Dedham, led by Chapman and Parker, issued certain 
 orders “ to be diligently obserued and kepte of all persons 
 whatsoeuer dwellinge within the said towne.” Very 
 curious those orders are. Briefly summarised, they show 
 that the ministers and ancients of the church exercised 
 an authority which would now be deemed tyrannical. 
 The orders provided that the Lord’s Day should be 
 spent in public and private devotions, in reading and in 
 examining the servants ; all travelling abroad, such as 
 to weddings or “ ffayres ” was to be eschewed. Men 
 were to frequent their own places of worship, accom- 
 panied, so far as possible, by every member of their 
 household. Young folk must be sent to be duly cate- 
 chised. The Lord’s Supper must be celebrated on the 
 
AT DEDHAM 
 
 *5 
 
 first Sunday of every month. On certain previous days 
 householders and “ maryred ” persons were to attend 
 church at 6 a.m. for examination. Then, as now, a 
 collection was taken at each communion for the poorer 
 folk of the parish. Communicants were to “ sytte 
 orderly and comly in their place.” On the Tuesday 
 following each Lord’s Supper, the ancients, led by 
 Chapman and Parker, were to confer touching the good 
 government of Dedham. Church members, when a 
 quarrel arose amongst them, were to consult with the 
 minister and two other godly neighbours before carrying 
 their grievance elsewhere ; they were to offer the hospi- 
 tality of their houses to their poorer brethren in such 
 measure as they could afford. The two lectures of 
 each week were to be duly attended by householders 
 and servants. The young were to be taught “ to reade 
 Englishe,”in a convenient place appointed for the purpose; 
 and ministers or governors were to receive no appren- 
 tices who had not mastered such rudiments of learning* 
 No person without visible employment was permitted 
 to remain in Dedham. Suspected houses were to be 
 visited by the ministers and ancients, with a constable ; 
 they were to keep a sharp eye on the “ naughtie disposi- 
 tion of disordered persons.” Those who anticipated 
 the privileges of wedlock were to suffer something little 
 short of social and religious ostracism. Indeed, the men 
 of Dedham, when they rebelled against the shackles of 
 the Prayer Book, exchanged them for the more rigid 
 fetters of Classis orders. 
 
 As I write, I have before me a small octavo on “ Cart- 
 wright and his Contemporaries,” published in 1848. 
 The book contains many references to John Field and 
 
26 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 Thomas Wilcocks ; the frontispiece shows these two 
 sturdy Puritans in Newgate Prison. Field, we may note 
 in passing, lies near Milton in St. Giles’, Cripplegate ; 
 Wilcocks, who passed the evening of his troubled days 
 largely at Bovington in Hertfordshire, was praised as an 
 author by Antony k Wood. Both Field and Wilcocks 
 are mentioned in connection with the Dedham Classis. 
 Field, in 1583, wrote a letter to Chapman — “ My reverend 
 brother in Christ D. Chapman Teacher of godes word 
 at Dedham ” — which alludes to former correspondence 
 between them, and refers in strong terms to Whitgift, 
 then newly consecrated ; “ Our new Archbishopp, now he 
 is in, sheweth himself as he was wonte to be ... is 
 egerly set to ouerthrowe and wast his poore church . . . 
 the peace of the Church is at an End, if he be not curbed.” 
 Wilcocks, sometime minister at Honey Lane, and leader, 
 with Field, of the London Classis, wrote to the brethren 
 for a little money to help him in his present necessity. 
 The letters — evidently there was more than one — were 
 read before the Dedham Classis, in Parker’s house, on 
 January 13, 1583-1584. When next the Classis met, 
 at Hog Lane, Barfold, Mr. Tye announced that money 
 had been sent to Wilcocks, and it was decided to request 
 payment, or a letter promising same. But Wilcocks, 
 apparently, was still in difficulties, and when the Classis 
 met at Colchester, in the following April, a further sum 
 for his relief was raised by the brethren. The Sub- 
 scription List is printed in the Minute Book ; Chapman 
 gave twenty shillings, Tye ten, and Parker five. I am 
 sorry to add that it was subsequently resolved to send a 
 letter to Wilcocks, reproving him for his neglect to 
 acknowledge the loan. Wilcocks, however, seems to 
 
AT DEDHAM 
 
 27 
 
 have regarded these moneys as a gift ; for when the 
 Classis presently met at Peldon — a little Essex village 
 that looks down upon Mersea Island — it was deemed 
 necessary to again write to Wilcocks, pointing out that 
 the brethren did not intend to give, but to lend him 
 money. 
 
 But it was not of the Dedham Classis that I thought 
 as I lingered in the streets of that once busy town. I 
 could not forget that I was in Constable’s country, and 
 next morning, on leaving the inn, I turned towards the 
 mill beside the Stour. It now bears little resemblance 
 to the mill in the famous picture. The mill, as Con- 
 stable knew and painted it, was purchased by his father, 
 Golding Constable, who also owned a water-mill at 
 Flatford, and two wind-mills at East Bergholt. A large 
 brick structure now stands on the site of the old mill, 
 and men with whom I chatted as I leaned over the iron 
 bridge were intent on fishing rather than on art. That 
 morning they had caught a score of bream in the mill- 
 pond, some of which weighed more than two pounds 
 each. They were still exchanging congratulations, as 
 all good fishermen should, when I left them to search 
 for the precise spot from which Dedham Mill was painted. 
 It is no longer easy to trace this ; I could not get the mill 
 and the church tower in their respective positions as in 
 the picture. After wandering for some time along the 
 tow-path I concluded that Constable probably placed 
 the tower farther to the right than its actual position 
 warranted. In the picture the tower is near the centre 
 of the canvas, but from no standpoint could I obtain 
 a view similar to that painted by Constable. I refer 
 merely to the general disposition of objects ; the 
 
28 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 actual configuration of the scene is naturally much 
 changed. 
 
 I was more successful in my search for some person 
 who had known the family of Golding Constable. As I 
 stood before the almshouses, bequeathed to Dedham 
 by the will of Mr. Stephen Dunton in 1517, a Dedham 
 patriarch came down the street. He nodded cheerily? 
 and asked if I had seen any older almshouses in England. 
 I think he was relieved when I replied that I had not. 
 This local pride, when one comes to think of it, is a 
 remarkable thing. We boast of any feature, no matter 
 what, if only it is peculiar to our own neighbourhood. 
 Such pride — such patriotism in 'petto — is found all over 
 England, and, I suppose, in every other country too. 
 At St. Albans you are told that the “ Fighting Cocks,” 
 a round house beside the river Ver, is the oldest inhabited 
 house in England ; somewhere on the Yorkshire moors 
 you may see, or could quite recently, a fire that has 
 burned for two generations without having been extin- 
 guished for one hour during the whole period ; it would 
 take much space and time to enumerate all the parishes 
 that claim to show the smallest church in our land. The 
 old man beside me claimed distinction, too, for he is, 
 I was given to believe, the only man in Dedham who can 
 remember Abram Constable — whose portrait, painted 
 by his brother John, is now in the possession of Mr. W. 
 Cuthbert Quilter. At Dedham Mill, young Jack, now 
 white with age, worked side by side with “ Ab’rum ” ; 
 he knows “ Barg’ult ” and the “ Stow’er ” as he knows 
 his own hand, and can spin many a yarn concerning the 
 Essex and Suffolk of a bygone age. Jack, if I remember 
 rightly, is a little over eighty years old ; but, even so, 
 
AT DEDHAM 
 
 2 9 
 
 if ever he saw John Constable it must have been when 
 the artist was nearing his end, and had long been living 
 in London. He was not quite clear on the subject of 
 dates ; and appeared surprised when I remarked that 
 he was in his early teens when the artist died in 1837. 
 
 At Dedham Grammar School, under the care of the 
 Rev. T. G. Grimwood, Constable — as Mr. Arthur 
 Chamberlain puts it — “ finished his education.” I 
 would say rather that here his education seriously com- 
 menced. For he had previously been sent to school 
 at Lavenham, where the headmaster neglected his 
 pupils to go a-wooing, and the usher flogged them as 
 frequently and severely as he could. The school was an 
 ancient foundation, endowed by one William Littlebury 
 in 1571 ; it doubtless afforded such education as was 
 usually imparted at similar schools. But Constable 
 never became a bookworm, much less a scholar. As 
 Macaulay would have said, his prose was probably not 
 polished to the true Ciceronian elegance, nor his verse 
 exactly Virgilian. Here, nevertheless, his education really 
 began ; here he acquired such scholarship as he ever 
 possessed ; here, by the riverside and in the neighbour- 
 ing corn-fields and meadows, he loitered and observed, 
 with an unfailing eye for Nature in all her many moods. 
 Here, too, he wandered and sketched with his friend John 
 Dunthorne, gaining fresh insight daily into the secrets 
 of the art of landscape painting, of which he was after- 
 wards to become so incomparable a master. The friend- 
 ship made lasting impressions on both lives. It did much 
 to foster Constable’s love for his art ; it brought material 
 benefit to Dunthorne, whose son was befriended by 
 the artist, who assisted him in London and grieved 
 
30 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 much when, in 1832, young Dunthorne died of 
 consumption. 
 
 Indeed, it is hardly too much to say that the Vale of 
 Dedham, rather than the neighbourhood of East Bergholt, 
 is associated in most minds with the name of Constable. 
 As Mr. R. A. Beckett, a very charming writer, has so 
 aptly put it : “ The chief interest of Dedham lies for 
 most people in the fact that it is the gate, so to speak, 
 of that beautiful country which has been made famous 
 by the genius of Constable . . . there is hardly a phase 
 of the scenery of this beautiful river-valley, in any of its 
 aspects of sky or season, which Constable has not seized 
 for us.” An interesting anecdote in this connection 
 was related by the artist in a letter to Lucas, and may 
 be found in Leslie’s “ Memoirs.” As Constable was 
 returning to Hampstead from the funeral of John Dun- 
 thorne, two gentlemen, strangers alike to him and to 
 each other, travelled by the same coach. As the coach 
 crossed the Vale of Dedham, Constable pointed out the 
 general beauty of the landscape, with an artist’s fervour, 
 we may well suppose. “ Yes sir,” said one of them, 
 “ this is Constable’s country.” The artist had the good 
 sense to reveal his identity, thereby, perhaps, escaping 
 both praise and censure. No Boswell has set down 
 for us the subsequent conversation in the coach ; but 
 Constable probably seized the opportunity to urge a 
 return to Nature — a return from the idealised land- 
 scapes of other lands to the actual landscapes of our own. 
 We are now interested in the anecdote chiefly because 
 it proves that, so early as 1832, the artist, despite many 
 detractors, was sufficiently famous for his name to be 
 linked with the district which he knew as he knew no 
 
Sometimes called The Leaping Horse. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
AT DEDHAM 
 
 3i 
 
 other. He felt that the artist who would study Nature 
 face to face might spend his days very profitably among 
 the waterside pastures and winding lanes around Dedham; 
 for he loved, as he once wrote in a different connection, 
 “ the sound of water escaping from mill-dams, &c., 
 willows, old rotten planks, slimy posts, and brickwork,” 
 and loving such things he could but love the Dedham 
 of his early days. 
 
 I have said that in Dedham Mill the tower of St. 
 Mary’s Church occupies, approximately, the centre of 
 the canvas. Constable loved to paint the scenery of 
 Dedham from standpoints which enabled him to place 
 it in that position. It stands thus in the beautiful 
 Dedham Vale at South Kensington ; in the upright 
 Lock on the Stour ; in the painting, similarly entitled, 
 at the National Gallery ; in the well-known picture, 
 painted about 1815, with a labourer and a cow con- 
 spicuous in the foreground ; and in that called On the 
 Stour , showing three barges near the old bridge between 
 Dedham and Flatford Mill. In the Dedham Lock , 
 already mentioned — better known, perhaps, as The Leap- 
 ing Horse , and now at Burlington House — the church 
 tower is placed on the extreme right, in what is probably 
 its true position, relatively to the point of view. For 
 Dedham Lock , exhibited at the Academy in 1825, depicts 
 a scene a little westward from the mill — a willow-shaded 
 spot, where a large horse, with a boy on its back, is leaping 
 one of the wooden barriers placed across the towpath 
 to prevent the straying of cattle. Such barriers — like 
 the top bar of a gate, hinged upon a post — are still beside 
 the Stour. The picture is unquestionably fine. Sketched 
 upon the spot, it was largely painted in London, and 
 
32 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 Constable lavished upon it a deal of labour. He liked it 
 himself ; the Academy, for once, liked his picture too. 
 To point out its beauties now is to describe the obvious. 
 Atmosphere, movement, colour ; disposition and co- 
 ordination of parts ; in no particular does it readily offer 
 points to the adverse critic. As Mr. Sturge Henderson 
 has well said — “ The vigour and movement of the picture 
 are immense. The resistless, onward sweep of sky and 
 water bespeak a potentiality of which the life and strength 
 of the (horse) is but an off-shoot. In the direct and 
 simple representation of a scene in rural life, the artist 
 has communicated the reality of energy and of force with 
 a success not always attained by Watts or Rodin when they 
 essay the more ambitious task of abstractly conceiving 
 a quality and representing it by means of a type.” The 
 Leafing Horse , however, was returned to the artist 
 after the exhibition. It was too far removed from 
 contemporary taste to find a purchaser. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 FLATFORD MILL 
 
 Next morning, I went on pilgrimage to Elatford Mill. 
 Seeking the riverside, my way thence lay through a 
 country sweet to look upon — a country that brought to 
 mind the land of which Lloyd Mifflin sings * 
 
 . . . dim views 
 Between the willow branches, of faint blues 
 That lie upon the waters — azure blanks 
 Of beauty, studded, here and there, with ranks 
 Of arrow-headed weeds, where his strange hues 
 The dragon-fly displays. 
 
 All pilgrimages, as it seems to me, are actuated by a 
 spirit essentially the same. For surely we are pilgrims, 
 in the best sense of the word, whenever we seek a spot 
 sacred to the memory of those “ who of the past are all 
 that cannot pass away.” We get profit to our souls 
 whether we seek the haunts of preacher, poet, or painter ; 
 moreover, when our pilgrimage leads us through a 
 pleasant land, where birds sing to us as we go upon our 
 way, and the air is so sweet as to raise the spirits, we may 
 find surer healing for our bodily infirmities than was found 
 of old by folk who wandered far in order to look upon— 
 perchance to touch— the bones of some saint. 
 
 A homily is well enough in its way, and may serve for 
 a prologue ; but I shall hardly be asked to lengthen it 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 34 
 
 on the bank of the Stour. So charming is the broad 
 vale that stretches between the mills of Dedham and 
 Flatford, and so perpetually does the river turn and twist, 
 that an entire morning may pass while one saunters 
 along that tow-path depicted in so many of Constable’s 
 pictures. Mr. Dutt thinks it impossible to get quickly 
 to Flatford Mill if one has never before been in the 
 neighbourhood. The remark may prove true for many 
 reasons. You may be detained by some veteran angler, 
 anxious to narrate his more notable achievements, and 
 whose importunities are not to be denied. A pretty 
 girl, reading in a punt, is even more attractive ; and 
 men of botanical predilections are prone to loiter where 
 the burdocks grow tall and strong, where figwort and 
 pink agrimony stand side by side, and water-mint, here 
 exceedingly plentiful, nestles closely under the flowering 
 rush, or in the shadow of tall valerian or yellow tansies. 
 
 The immediate neighbourhood of Flatford Mill is less 
 changed, since Constable painted, than might be expected. 
 But the great increase in surrounding foliage, particularly 
 in the number of large willows, is a noticeable feature ; 
 and I agree with those who, as Mr. Dutt puts it, consider 
 that “ if it were not for an ugly modern chimney-shaft 
 it would be an even more charming subject for artists 
 now than it was in Constable’s time.” The large chest- 
 nut-trees on the islet near the lock almost hide the mill 
 itself from view as one stands on the spot from which 
 Flatford Mill on the River Stour was sketched. The 
 point of view is in this case easily determined. In the 
 immediate foreground of the picture a boy is seated on 
 a barge-horse near the projecting timbers of a bridge 
 across the Stour. That bridge still stands, a little west- 
 
FLATFORD MILL 
 
 35 
 
 ward from the mill ; it has been lovingly sketched by 
 Mr. J. Wylie. When we lean over it to watch the fish 
 dart here and there, as Constable must so often have 
 done, we see the spot is but little altered in the century 
 that has passed since he conferred an immortality upon 
 the neighbourhood. 
 
 Constable’s Flatford Mill , signed by the artist and 
 dated 1817, was bequeathed to the National Gallery by 
 Miss Isabel Constable in 1888. It hangs in the British 
 School, next to Morland’s Inside of a Stable ; it is fairly 
 characteristic of the artist’s methods of treatment, and 
 a bold example of his views on landscape painting. Those 
 views were expounded in three lectures delivered at 
 Worcester in 1835, and Flatford Mill was one of several 
 pictures then chosen to represent his work. The picture 
 is too well known to need description here ; but we may 
 note in passing how thoroughly it illustrates his theory 
 (expressed in regard to the Worcester Exhibition) that 
 “ ideal art ” in landscape is “ sheer nonsense.” At the 
 same time, Constable protested against a mere slavish 
 imitation of Nature, urging that a landscape painter 
 must be something more than a copyist. The position 
 is not, perhaps, easily explained, but a few words may 
 be said in illustration. 
 
 Let us suppose ourselves standing near Flatford Bridge 
 with Constable’s picture placed conveniently for com- 
 parison with the actual scene. The scene is before us, 
 a century older than the picture, but “ wonderfully 
 like.” For present purposes, the brief words of descrip- 
 tion in the Catalogue of the National Gallery may serve : 
 
 On the left of the foreground a draught-horse, bestridden by a boy, 
 stands on the towing-path, while a man adjusts the rope by which it is 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 3<5 
 
 attached to a barge floating in the weir, under the guidance of bargemen. 
 On the right is an old and dilapidated oak-tree, round the trunk of which 
 a streamlet winds between sedgy banks. In the middle distance the river 
 is intersected by a lock, surrounded by trees and farm buildings. Above, 
 a sunny sky, across which large clouds are drifting. 
 
 Now, obviously, the scene here depicted in words, 
 faithful so far as they go, is commonplace. No detail 
 is named which may not be found in a dozen counties 
 in England ; moreover, we might without difficulty 
 find other mill-stream scenery to which the whole des- 
 cription would apply with almost equal fidelity. We 
 might also find an artist to paint such mill-stream 
 scenery with great accuracy, but would he make a picture 
 like Flatford Mill ? The answer is, of course, that only 
 a Constable could paint Constable’s pictures. What, 
 then, did Constable impart to the picture which was 
 more than delineation and less than that “ ideal ” art 
 which he despised ? In Flatford Mill Constable depicted 
 a scene so familiar to him that he might have both 
 sketched and painted it from memory. Knowing the 
 scene, and making due allowance for the lapse of time, 
 I will venture the assertion that hardly any detail in the 
 picture, however trivial, was invented by the artist ; 
 nor do I think it probable that any material feature was 
 omitted when the sketch was executed. Is Flatford Mill 
 more than a transcript from Nature ? 
 
 The answer is not far to seek. Flatford Mill is a 
 transcript, but a transcript of unusual fidelity. It 
 shows, I think, that a landscape may be truly ideal, apart 
 from any invention by the artist. In the first place, 
 as touching mere configuration, the true artist alone can 
 judge what is worthy of portrayal ; secondly, he, and 
 
Flatford Mill, on the River Stour. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
FLATFORD MILL 
 
 37 
 
 he only, can seize the right moment in which to portray 
 it. These two qualifications, with all that they embrace 
 and connote, tell for much in the exercise of landscape 
 art ; they go far to explain an apparent contradiction 
 when we say that Constable, by precept and example 
 more than a “ mere copyist,” was yet, as Lord Windsor 
 has remarked, “ an uncompromising realist.” Constable 
 saw more than less gifted artists ; hence his transcripts 
 from the neighbourhood of grove and field are ideal in the 
 best sense of the term. His skies, for instance, are fantastic 
 imaginations to those who have studied the heavens 
 less lovingly than he. That he was a realist will hardly 
 be disputed ; but how ideal the real may appear we per- 
 ceive, clearly enough, as we turn the pages of “ Constable’s 
 Sketches.” In short, as truth is stranger than fiction, 
 so Nature has more moods and more diverse manifesta- 
 tions than are dreamt of in the philosophy of undiscerning 
 men. The “ transcript ” of one artist becomes an 
 “ Impression ” at the hands of another, and we find 
 Constable himself styled “ the father of modern Im- 
 pressionism.” Perhaps the gist of the matter lies 
 here : the ablest copy is but approximately faithful, 
 and the artist who should copy with absolute fidelity 
 would be the greatest landscape painter in the world. 
 And — to push the point to its extremity — does not this 
 position deliver us into the hands of Locke, who tells 
 us that all knowledge is derived from experience, the 
 outcome of observation ? 
 
 Thus, unless I am greatly mistaken, Constable was an 
 ideal artist because he copied more faithfully than many 
 others, not because he strove to depict more than he could 
 see. Close observers of Nature have noticed how, at 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 38 
 
 certain times, the sky displays strange hues and assumes 
 vagaries of cloud-form, and the artist who should faith- 
 fully reproduce those hues and forms would be censured 
 as an eccentric Impressionist. I believe it is this snap- 
 shotting of Nature unawares — to borrow a bold expres- 
 sion — and nothing more than this, which gains some 
 artists the titles of Idealist and Impressionist. Their 
 most outre effects are less the outcome of fancy than is 
 commonly supposed. Said a well-known black-and-white 
 artist to me some months back, “ Leader, of course, is all 
 very well in his way, but he hasn’t an atom of imagina- 
 tion.” Here, I think, was a word misused. My friend 
 can hardly have wished to blame Leader for not 
 “ imagining ” his landscapes, wholly or in part. More 
 probably, he missed from the canvas of that great painter 
 certain effects of atmosphere and mood for which he had 
 looked — effects so seldom produced successfully that their 
 presence is attributed to the imagination of an ideal 
 artist. Nor is this less true if we say, with the late 
 William Sharp, that imagination in an artist is but another 
 name for poetic insight or artistic grasp. 
 
 Flatford Mill has been painted a thousand times, 
 with infinitely varying degrees of success, since it was 
 painted by Constable. Large and in many ways ad- 
 mirable photographs of the spot may be bought in 
 Dedham, the nearest town. A graceful little sketch 
 from Mr. Pennell’s pencil is known to many, a sketch 
 that, despite its slightness, and some not very happy 
 execution of foliage, sets the scene before us vividly. 
 The mill-pool, and the railed and balustraded hand- 
 bridge, have been sketched by Mr. Wylie, whose sketch, 
 however, does not embrace the old dormer windows 
 
FLATFORD MILL 
 
 39 
 
 and chimney-stacks, noticeable features in Constable’s 
 picture. I counted a score of artists, mostly ladies, 
 between the Mill and Flatford Bridge ; their work, in 
 all stages of progress, was interesting to watch. They 
 were all in earnest, all zealous to perpetuate, however 
 inadequately, something of the charm of time and place ; 
 all hopeful that they, too, might place on canvas a not 
 unworthy vision of Flatford Mill. I saw one delicious 
 piece of colouring, with the breeze in the willows, the 
 August sunlight on the moving waters, a boat among the 
 withes, and a certain indefinable impression of afternoon 
 quietness pervading the whole. 
 
 I may remind readers that here at Flatford, for some 
 few years, Constable worked in his father’s mill. For 
 like Rembrandt, and like Etty, Constable was a miller’s 
 son ; Grant Allen, in an essay entitled “ The Recipe 
 for Genius,” calls him “ an almost miraculous miller.” 
 He worked, indeed, sometimes at Flatford and sometimes 
 at Dedham ; we read that he was often called the 
 “ handsome miller and a portrait, drawn by Daniel 
 Gardner when Constable was twenty years old, lends 
 colour to the report. During the period between 
 quitting school and finally settling in London as an 
 avowed artist, he devoted his leisure to that art which 
 claimed his best energies, rambling over the whole neigh- 
 bourhood and painting many pictures in the open air — 
 ever, to him, the true studio. We know, too, from 
 letters written to Smith the engraver, that he read books 
 on art and anatomy, and tried his hand at etching. 
 Unlike so many artistic and literary amateurs — some 
 of whom, as Southey insisted, mistake inclination for 
 ability, and suppose uncommon genius to be best shown 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 40 
 
 by despising common duties — Constable did his mill- 
 work honestly, but not so cheerfully as to deceive his 
 father, who knew where his son’s heart lay, and what 
 was the goal of his ambitions. So when at length he 
 quitted the mill for ever it was with that father’s sanction, 
 and it is pleasing to remember that Golding Constable 
 lived to see his son famous, and a repeated exhibitor 
 at the Royal Academy. Many tentative sketches and 
 paintings of Flatford Mill were executed by Constable 
 at an early period ; a more serious attempt, painted soon 
 after the year 1800, resulted in a Flatford Mill which was 
 rejected by the HangingCommittee of the Royal Academy. 
 But the picture led to authoritative encouragement. 
 West, then President of the Academy, said to the artist, 
 “ Don’t be disheartened, young man, we shall hear of 
 you again ; you must have loved Nature very much 
 before you could have painted a picture like this ” ; 
 then, by a demonstration in chalk, he gave him a lesson 
 in chiaroscuro. Constable wisely took the lesson to 
 heart, and when, in later days, he prepared his “ English 
 Landscape,” he announced that the series was prin- 
 cipally intended to mark the phenomena of the 
 “ chiaroscuro of Nature.” 
 
 Boat-building near Flatford Mill , a small picture now 
 at South Kensington, was painted some two years before 
 the larger canvas in the National Gallery ; it will be 
 remembered, in passing, that Ship-building at Ipswich 
 is the title of a pencil-sketch executed in 1817, proving 
 that such subjects attracted him for their own sake. 
 The picture at South Kensington is one on which the 
 eye delights to dwell ; it is rich in colour, freely un- 
 conventional, and finished with obvious care ; many 
 details being rendered, as a critic has said, with Dutch- 
 
Boat-Building near Flatford Mill. 
 

 
 
 
 
FLATFORD MILL 
 
 4 1 
 
 like accuracy. The View on the Stour , an oil sketch now 
 in the same gallery, is very broad and effective ; it is 
 a view at Flatford, looking over the mill-pool towards 
 the east. Other pictures, larger and more widely 
 famous, are studies, as we shall presently see, of the 
 same vicinity from different standpoints. 
 
 To linger among the sun-lit greenery of Flatford is 
 to think of that beautiful line in Mr. Swinburne’s “ Ballad 
 of Bath ” : “ Peace hath here found harbourage mild as 
 very sleep.” All is suggestive of ease, and of peaceful 
 seclusion from the madding crowd ; the world-worn 
 merchant is wise when he retires to such a spot. The 
 music of the water at the weir ; the scarcely audible 
 murmur of insects ; the occasional click of an oar in the 
 rowlock ; the cackle of fowls around the old mill, or 
 from the farther distance near the Valley Farm ; the 
 rustle of the breeze among a million leaves ; the laughter 
 of boys, not sufficiently noisy to fret the more patient 
 youth as he angles in the higher pool ; the unfathomable 
 joy of the lark that “ singing still dost soar and soaring 
 ever singest ” : what pleasures of the town are not found 
 wanting when weighed in the balances with these ? 
 Such, at least, are the amentities of life most commended 
 by wisest men. I am of those who believe David to have 
 written the twenty-third Psalm — “ his autograph,” says 
 Mr. F. B. Meyer, “ is on every verse ” — and who be- 
 lieve that he wrote it late in life, when his battles were 
 almost over, and memory reverted to earlier shepherd 
 days on the hills of Bethlehem. And to numberless 
 souls the words, “ He maketh me to lie down in 
 green pastures, He leadeth me beside the still waters,” 
 are the sweetest in that brief song of the sweet singer 
 of Israel. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE VALLEY FARM 
 
 In the churchyard at East Bergholt, one mile from 
 Flatford Mill, stands a small headstone, bearing a few 
 words of much interest to admirers of Constable. It is 
 to the memory of William Lott, who died in 1849, aged 
 eighty-eight ; “ he resided at Gibeon’s Farm, near 
 Flatford Mill in this parish, all his life.” With Lott 
 Constable must have been very intimate ; how dearly 
 he loved the vicinity of Lott’s home, and how highly 
 he esteemed it as a fit subject for the exercise of his art, 
 is attested by several of his most successful pictures. 
 Many prints from those pictures are before me as I write, 
 and here, sitting on the old brick wall, so beautifully 
 freckled with lichen and fern, I have been looking through 
 my collection once again, and glancing from time to time 
 from the picture to the original, from engraving or 
 photograph to the now famous house, so long the home 
 of Willy Lott. 
 
 I have reached the most important spot in my rambles, 
 a spot more intimately associated with Constable’s 
 pictures than any other that I am to visit. I may say 
 at once, for the sake of the ignorant, that Willy Lott’s 
 house was painted by Constable not only in the oil 
 sketch so named, engraved by Lucas and published after 
 the artist’s death, but in other pictures known by different 
 
THE VALLEY FARM 
 
 43 
 
 names ; and two of his greatest works, The Valley Farm 
 and The Hayzuain , depict the same house from opposite 
 standpoints. The house stands at the river’s edge, on 
 the Suffolk side of Flatford Mill. Just now I crossed 
 Flatford Bridge, and turning to the right, came at once 
 to the spot from which Constable sketched The Hay- 
 zuain . The scene is as little altered as that of Flatford 
 Mill . Let us compare it with a good photograph from 
 the original — his largest picture in the National Gallery, 
 as I have already mentioned. The old wall referred to 
 stands a little to the right, but out of the field of the 
 picture, as does also the mill-house, covered with ivy 
 and vine and virginian creeper. On the Essex side of 
 the Stour the footpath is now overhung by trees ; but 
 the wing of the farm-house shown on the left is almost 
 identically the same. There is the brick chimney-stack ; 
 there the sloping, red-tiled, gabled roof ; there is the 
 protruding step, still flanked by a wooden hand-rail, from 
 which, in Constable’s picture, a woman stoops to dip 
 her pitcher in the gleaming waters of the stream. In 
 the oil sketch of the same subject, now at South Kensing- 
 ton, a horse stands in the immediate foreground, with a 
 boy upon his back, but these were omitted from the 
 finished picture ; the spaniel at the water’s edge is seen 
 in both. The dog is shown, too, in the sketch fVilly 
 Lott's House , in the same gallery, as is also the woman 
 dipping water ; but the sketch was taken a little nearer 
 to the house. 
 
 The Hayzuain , first entitled Landscape , Noon , was sent 
 by Constable to the Royal Academy on April io, 1821, 
 as he himself records. It is signed “ John Constable, 
 pinxit, London, 1821.” In 1824 the picture was at the 
 
44 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 Louvre ; it was presently sold for .£400, and was lent, 
 many years afterwards, to an exhibition of Old Masters 
 at the Royal Academy. By that time the critics had 
 agreed to admire it, and since its presentation to the 
 National Gallery in 1886, its presumptive value is greater 
 every year. Nobody now denies that it is a great, 
 perhaps a very great, picture. It stands, as I know from 
 experience, one of the severest tests. Go into the National 
 Gallery, view that landscape steadily and sympathetically 
 from a sufficient distance, and presently the frame, the 
 wall, the Gallery itself is gone, and you are looking, not 
 upon The Haywain by Constable, but upon a scene by 
 the riverside, in the full light of noonday, a scene truly 
 typical of the England you love so well. 
 
 The Haywain was etched by H. Brunet-Debaines in 
 1884 — with nicety of touch and depth of sympathy ; 
 a well-known mezzotint, somewhat larger, was executed 
 by Mr. J. B. Pratt in 1889. You cannot ramble long in 
 London without seeing cheap prints, some good, some 
 exceedingly bad and misleading, in the shop windows. 
 I have sometimes felt, indeed, that we hardly realise 
 our debt to the many artists whose works are copied in 
 great numbers for sale in a thousand shops. It is one of 
 the most remarkable phenomena of human life — this 
 ability of one man to impart pleasure to many. Macaulay 
 somewhere says that there is much less difference between 
 one man and another than is commonly supposed ; but 
 often the difference is so great that it would be difficult 
 to exaggerate it. I will revert to The Haywain to point 
 my meaning. Here is a small house beside a mill-stream, 
 overshadowed by trees — a stream to which the farm men 
 at times lead their horses to drink. The scene does not 
 
THE VALLEY FARM 
 
 45 
 
 essentially differ from many such in England. Week 
 after week, month after month, year after year the spot 
 has been passed unnoticed or looked upon with com- 
 parative indifference. But presently the neighbourhood 
 is known to one who sees in it more than any man had 
 seen before, and has, moreover, the power to depict 
 what he sees. He sees the house of Willy Lott precisely 
 as others see it, but with what different eyes : 
 
 Oh, the little more, and how much it is, 
 
 And the little less, and what worlds away ! 
 
 He sketches the scene ; he paints it — lovingly elaborates 
 each detail of seeming triviality, patiently labours to — 
 as Wordsworth puts it — “ express what then he saw,” 
 and wistfully, perchance prayerfully, yearns to leave to 
 posterity such portraiture as shall be worthy of the scene 
 as he had known and loved it. And now, after he has laiu 
 in the grave nearly seventy years, the fruits of that love 
 and patience and wistful yearning are known to everybody 
 who knows aught of landscape art in England, and to 
 multitudes beside. On brightly coloured picture-cards 
 The Haywain , as I well know, is pored upon by tiny folk ; 
 the “ angel of the house ” places it in her album of 
 treasured views ; the student copies it, or would fain 
 do so ; I have heard even the “ unlettered hind ” praise 
 its fidelity to Nature. The pleasure created and dis- 
 tributed by such a picture as The Haywain is perhaps 
 greater than that derived from any other human source, 
 excepting only a book which is at once great and popular. 
 
 Constable was nearing his end when he painted A 
 View of Willy Lotfs House , now better known as The 
 Valley Farm. Of all his homeland pictures, The Corn - 
 
\6 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 field alone has been more widely appreciated than this ; 
 perhaps no one of them was the outcome of so much 
 observation and tentative effort. Constable sketched 
 the subject from many standpoints, and his preliminary 
 studies differed more essentially from the finished work 
 than was usual with his landscapes. The oil sketch in 
 the collection of the late James Orrock is from nearly 
 the same standpoint as the picture, but on the right are 
 shown some steps by the water-side ; a child sits on the 
 topmost step, and a woman stands close by. But whereas, 
 in the picture, three cows are in the stream, in the sketch 
 two cows are crossing a wooden bridge ; and whereas, 
 in the picture, the boat in the foreground contains a man 
 and a girl, in the sketch it contains a man only. The oil 
 sketch at South Kensington shows the house at a greater 
 distance ; it lacks both bridge and cows, but shows a 
 boat stern foremost. A further sketch, entitled Land - 
 scape with Water , also at South Kensington, shows the same 
 house and surroundings from yet another standpoint. 
 After all, The Valley Farm was exhibited in 1835 in an 
 unfinished state ; even so, its merits were obvious, and 
 it was warmly approved. At an earlier stage it had found 
 favour in the eyes of Mr. Robert Vernon, who ultimately 
 purchased it, bequeathing it to the National Gallery 
 in 1847, so its worth has never been tested at public 
 auction. In this picture, as Constable himself claimed, 
 he kept his brightness without spottiness. “ I have 
 preserved God Almighty’s daylight,” he wrote, “ which 
 is enjoyed by all mankind, excepting only the lovers of 
 old dirty canvas, perished pictures at a thousand guineas 
 each. . . .” This “ daylight ” is still very noticeable 
 in Fhe Valley Farm ; it lurks between the trunks of the 
 
THE VALLEY FARM 
 
 47 
 
 trees, it gladdens the vicinity of the house ; it broods 
 upon the parted waters of the stream. The whole 
 picture is restful to the eye ; and if, as Winckelmann 
 affirms, a majestic composure of attitude and expression 
 is an attribute of the highest art, we must by analogy 
 claim pre-eminent excellence for The Valley Farm . 
 The picture has received much attention from the 
 etcher’s hand. It was etched by Mr. George Saunders 
 in 1875, and by Mr. A. Brunet-Debaines in 1878 ; a 
 much smaller line engraving is by Mr. J. C. Bentley. 
 
 A winding and ascending lane leads from Willy Lott’s 
 house to the village of East Bergholt, of which more anon. 
 The lane commands fine views over the Stour Valley, 
 from Manningtree to Dedham, and abounds with nooks 
 and corners where, as Crabbe says, “ the blue bugloss 
 paints the sterile soil.” The use of the word “ sterile ” 
 shows how closely Crabbe had watched the wild flowers 
 of his beloved Suffolk, for the bugloss is chiefly found on 
 open patches near gateways, in gravel-pits or old quarries, 
 and on heaps of refuse left neglected beside unfrequented 
 pathways. Before reaching East Bergholt, the rambler 
 should turn to the left, where a narrower lane will soon 
 lead him to the spot immortalised by Constable’s Corn- 
 field. Concerning this spot there have been misunder- 
 standings. I have already referred to the church tower 
 included in the picture by artistic licence ; moreover, 
 The Cornfield has been incorrectly described as a view in 
 Essex. Even Mr. Dutt has been led astray. “ Go into 
 the National Gallery,” he writes, “ and look at Con- 
 stable’s Cornfield , and you will see one of these Essex 
 fields. In the foreground of the picture is a winding 
 lane, beyond which the yellow corn is bathed in sunlight.” 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 48 
 
 As a matter of fact, the winding lane and the cornfield 
 beyond are both in Suffolk. Passing down the lane, you 
 come to a spot which you may still identify as the scene 
 of the picture. But much is altered. Some elms were 
 felled long since, and the ditch on the left-hand side is 
 dry ; but here, as in the picture, the lane turns sharply 
 to the right, and looking over the hedge you see the fields 
 between the lane and the Stour, but probably miss the 
 figures of men — 
 
 The earth is quiet ; and far overhead 
 
 All the blue altitudes of air are mute. 
 
 Those “ altitudes ” were blue indeed when I stood at 
 the turning of the lane, looking down upon all that 
 pleasant valley, where the river wanders among a litter 
 of willows — so blue that I compared them with that 
 “ amethystine haze ” of which Symonds writes in his 
 “ Sketches in Italy.” 
 
 The Cornfield was painted in the spring of 1826, and 
 exhibited the same year at the Royal Academy. It 
 fully justified Constable’s claim expressed in a letter to 
 Fisher — “ the trees are more than usually studied, the 
 extremities well defined, as well as the stems : they are 
 shaken by a pleasant and healthful breeze at noon.” 
 Unfortunately, the engravings from this famous picture 
 are sometimes heavily over-printed, and the trees, upon 
 which so much depends, have a solidity of blackness about 
 them certainly not suggested by the original. The original 
 has never lacked appreciation, despite the fact that it 
 remained unsold. “ The voice in my favour is universal,” 
 wrote the artist, “ it is my best picture.” We owe 
 much to those few persons who, in 1837, purchased The 
 
THE VALLEY FARM 
 
 49 
 
 Cornfield from the artist’s executors for three hundred 
 guineas, and presented it to the nation. In all the cata- 
 logues of pictures in various collections, appended to 
 Hazlitt’s “ Criticisms on Art ” (2nd ed. 1856) only one 
 work of Constable’s is named — The Cornfield , No. 130 
 in the National Gallery. This picture may thus be re- 
 garded as the nucleus around which has gathered, in the 
 course of years, that collection of masterpieces by Con- 
 stable which now stands for so much in the eyes of many 
 of our shrewdest critics of landscape art. To-day, The 
 Cornfield hangs beside Ward’s Harlech Castle , which, 
 with its huge tree-trunk dominating the foreground, 
 certainly suffers by proximity to the smaller picture. 
 
 Less broadly effective than The Haywain , perhaps less 
 truly characteristic than The Valley Farm , The Cornfield 
 is a work of many charming qualities. As Mr. Chamber- 
 lain says, “ The sky is a fine piece of painting, full of 
 movement, with its masses of white and grey clouds, 
 and glimpses of bright blue.” There is nothing tempes- 
 tuous about it ; Fuseli himself would hardly have deemed 
 it necessary to raise his umbrella when going to view it, 
 as he is said to have done on one occasion when bound 
 for the Royal Academy, where Constable was exhibiting. 
 But it reveals the artist’s boldness in several ways. More 
 jealously conventional, he would hardly have painted the 
 sheep-boy prone on his belly, drinking from the brook ; 
 and would certainly have given fuller foliage to the 
 nearest tree, which is almost bare of leaves — a feature 
 also prominent in The Valley Farm. The sheep in the 
 lane received some late touches from Constable’s brush, 
 for Chantrey saw the picture at Somerset House before 
 the exhibition opened, and noticing dark shadows under 
 
50 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 their tails, said they had “ got the rot.” This he en- 
 deavoured to rectify, but was not successful. He seems 
 to have overlooked the fact that the time represented 
 is noon, and that, owing to the disposition of the 
 scene, the light comes almost exclusively from above. 
 The Cornfield needed no re-touching by Chantrey, or 
 anybody else. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 EAST BERGHOLT 
 
 In a fair and pleasant Suffolk upland, where, in early 
 summer, the eye rests upon every shade of green — from 
 the tall profuse grass, ready for the reaper, to the growing 
 corn, scarcely yellow — lies the village of East Bergholt, 
 once a market town. It is not of normal English type. 
 The English village, if truly typical, is closely disposed 
 on either side of one main thoroughfare ; the con- 
 tinuity of gable or dormer window is broken, here and 
 there, by the projecting sign-board of the “ Welcome , 55 
 or the “ Red Lion 55 ; the church stands at the village 
 end, a stone 5 s-cast from the last inn. Beside the church 
 stands the vicarage, perhaps the most comfortable house 
 in the immediate neighbourhood. The Baptist Chapel, 
 in red brick, a glaring architectural contrast, is in the 
 heart of the village, where old Simon’s cottage was so 
 recently pulled down. 
 
 They do things differently in East Bergholt. Here 
 is a picture from the pen of a ready writer. “ It seems 
 to have been built to be painted . . . half the cottages 
 in the village are so strikingly picturesque that it is diffi- 
 cult to believe that to look so is not the sole object of 
 their existence ; nestling in fragrant flower gardens, 
 and with woodbine-garlanded porches, they suggest 
 those picture-book cottages so pleasant to imagine and 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 52 
 
 hard to find.” Moreover, the church is in the centre of 
 the village, at the top of the lane leading to Flatford Mill. 
 Near by stands the little post-office, close to the spot 
 where stood “ a substantial red-brick house,” the early 
 home of John Constable. 
 
 Golding Constable’s house was demolished many years 
 ago, but its lineaments live for us on the canvas of his 
 son, and may be seen at South Kensington, and at the 
 National Gallery of British Art. They tell you, in the 
 village, that young Constable would at times resort to a 
 small room — an attic over the post-office — where he 
 could paint without interruption ; we know, too, that 
 he was welcome at Dunthorne’s cottage hard by. But 
 traces of Constable’s early footsteps are hard to find ; 
 we know little beyond what is preserved in the Memoirs. 
 The author of “ In Quaint East Anglia,” mentions a 
 villager whose father ground colours for the artist, and 
 whose uncle was the boy depicted in The Cornfield ; 
 but I never met this worthy, who also had stories to tell 
 concerning paintings by Constable, long regarded with 
 indifference by their owners. 
 
 East Bergholt is to-day the home of several artists 
 whose work, well represented last year in the exhibition 
 at Ipswich Art Gallery, has been deservedly praised. 
 Their pictures are largely concerned with East Anglia ; 
 indeed, their fidelity to the homeland might have satisfied 
 Borrow himself. But East Bergholt is no artist’s village 
 as the term is understood by tourists. Mr. Pennell 
 found few memories of Millet at Barbizon ; many boys 
 had never heard the name of Millet ; some even suggested 
 that “ Monsieur must mean Monsieur Millet le char- 
 bonnier ” — perhaps as good a man as the artist ; certainly 
 
EAST BERGHOLT 
 
 S 3 
 
 — from the utilitarian standpoint — quite as serviceable to 
 his fellows at Barbizon and elsewhere. I am sure the 
 reader might pass a week of idle hours at East Bergholt 
 without hearing the name of Constable. But the name 
 may catch his eye when he lingers in the church. In the 
 south aisle a window is dedicated “ To the glory of God 
 and in memory of John Constable, R.A., born in this 
 parish 1776, died 1837.” That is all, and what need 
 of more ? Better this brief memorial than such foolish 
 inscriptions as frequently disgrace those sanctuaries 
 where we lay our dead that never die. Better these few 
 words than those, for instance, to the memory of Milton 
 in Westminster Abbey, where, as the late Dean Farrar 
 puts it, “ We have one line about Milton, and four or 
 five about the small official magnificences of Benson,” 
 who erected the monument. 
 
 Constable sketched and painted much at East Bergholt. 
 Many of his pictures of the immediate neighbourhood are 
 at South Kensington. There is, I believe, no catalogue 
 of these, and the following particulars may prove of 
 service to the reader. In addition to the oil painting 
 of Golding Constable’s house, already mentioned, there 
 is one entitled Near East Bergholt ; there are two oil 
 sketches — a View , and a Porch of East Bergholt Church — 
 a favourite subject. The latter is a powerful sketch, 
 broadly suggestive, yet delineative in its treatment of 
 stone-work ; when standing near Willy Lott’s grave, 
 with our faces towards the west, we can identify its 
 standpoint. Of pencil sketches there are many ; one, 
 a large tree-piece, is laboured with great fidelity ; 
 two are views of Golding Constable’s house; four or 
 five are drawings of some portion of the church — a 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 54 
 
 Perpendicular structure — which also forms the subject 
 of six sketches in water-colour. 
 
 Folk tell strange stories concerning East Bergholt 
 Church. One such bears a suspicious resemblance to 
 a well-worn legend, repeated, with infinite variations, 
 in widely separated parishes. It may be briefly sum- 
 marised, after a matter-of-fact preamble. About the 
 beginning of the fifteenth century it was deemed ex- 
 pedient to enlarge the church. The work of enlarge- 
 ment was spread over many years, in fact the fabric was 
 modified and repeatedly added to during the following 
 century. Such activities are common to all parish 
 history ; the uncommon was yet to come. About 1525 
 the tower was commenced, but it never rose to more than 
 half its projected height, and still stands a monument 
 of incompletion. For the devil was much displeased 
 when he heard of the tower that was to be, and deter- 
 mined to oppose its erection. What followed may be 
 compared with the labours of Sisyphus or Penelope. 
 Satan watched the progress of the work by day, and by 
 night he destroyed what had been accomplished.* In 
 such case, the most industrious builders may well have 
 wearied ; the work was abandoned in despair ; and five 
 fine bells, designed for the belfry that was never built, 
 were placed in a cage-like structure in the adjoining 
 churchyard. Do you doubt the story ? If so, you should 
 visit East Bergholt, where you will notice that the church 
 tower is but an ivy-mantled fragment, and that a small 
 bell-cote, placed at the west end of the nave, does duty 
 for a belfry. Passing under what should have been the 
 south doorway of the tower, you come presently to the 
 
 * A similar story is told, for instance, at Tolleshunt Knights, in Essex. 
 
EAST BERGHOLT 
 
 55 
 
 curious bell-cage, formerly covered by thatch, but now 
 by tiles. Peering between the lattice you see the great 
 bells, substantial witnesses to the story, and sitting on the 
 old altar-tomb close by, you perhaps ask yourself where 
 fiction ends and fact begins. For the neighbourhood 
 is conducive to contemplation, and to the feeling that 
 “ Time passeth away as a shadow ”— a motto appro- 
 priately placed on the sun-dial over the south porch. 
 
 Three worthies, sometime rectors of East Bergholt, 
 should be thought of ere we leave the precincts of the 
 church. Fortunately, we are interested in each for 
 widely diverse reasons, so may avoid repetitions. We 
 will take them in the order of their going. 
 
 Robert Samuel was one of the Marian Martyrs. He 
 was at Barfolde ( i.e ., Bergholt) when “ the evil days 
 commenced.” We read of him in the third of Foxe’s 
 folios,* and portions of the narrative are very curious. 
 The garrulous old chronicler writes of Samuel as “ a 
 very godly and right faithful preacher of God’s Word,” 
 a minister whose sermons were worthy of high admira- 
 tion. Two long letters from his pen have been preserved ; 
 one an exhortation to patience under affliction, the other, 
 hardly so interesting, is known as the faith of Robert 
 Samuel. In the light of his subsequent sufferings, the 
 first words of the exhortation read almost as an inspired 
 prophecy. “ A man knoweth not his time ; but as the 
 fish is taken with the angle, and as the birds are caught 
 
 * The works of Foxe have an interest in East Anglian eyes, apart from 
 their worth as records. They were printed and published by John Day, 
 who was born at Dunwich, died at Saffron Walden, and has a window to his 
 memory, by the Stationers’ Company of London, in the church at Little 
 Bradley in Suffolk. Day, who had suffered exile as a Protestant, was the 
 only printer of his day who used Anglo-Saxon characters. 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 56 
 
 with the snare, even so are men caught and taken in the 
 perilous time, when it cometh upon them. The time 
 cometh ; the day draweth near (Ezek. 7). Better it 
 were to die, as the preacher saith, than to live and see 
 the miserable works which are done under the sun ; 
 such sudden and strange mutations, such woeful, heinous, 
 and lamentable divisions so fast approacheth, and none 
 or very few thoroughly repenteth. . . . Woe be unto 
 these false elusions of the world, baits of perdition, hooks 
 of the devil, which have so shamefully deceived and 
 seduced full many from the right path unto the Lord, 
 into the highways of confusion and perpetual perdition.” 
 Those perilous times foreseen by him arrived, and he was 
 thrown into prison, first at Ipswich, and then at Norwich. 
 In prison he saw visions. On one occasion, a shining 
 visitant stood before him, and exclaimed, “ Samuel, 
 Samuel, be of good cheer, and take a good heart unto 
 thee ; for after this day shalt thou never be either hungry 
 or thirsty.” At another time, he saw in his sleep three 
 ladders set up towards Heaven ; one was longer than the 
 rest, yet it seemed to Samuel, as he dreamed, that they 
 all met at the top. A fanciful interpretation tells us that 
 this dream foreshadowed the martyrdom of Samuel, 
 and of two women who perished shortly afterwards, 
 the three martyrs, like those three ladders, meeting in 
 Heaven at last ! 
 
 Robert Samuel was burnt at Ipswich on August 18, 
 1555. As he was going towards the spot, as the story 
 runs, a certain maid threw her arms about his neck and 
 kissed him. The action was construed to her disad- 
 vantage ; she was marked for a refractory heretic, and 
 threatened with imprisonment and burning. But she 
 
EAST BERGHOLT 
 
 57 
 
 hid herself in the town, and “ escaped their fiery hands.” 
 After the burning of Samuel, it was noised abroad, by 
 some that stood by on the occasion, that the martyr’s 
 body shone “ bright and white as new-tried silver.” 
 Doubtless those were days of great excitement, and not 
 all the exaggerations of contemporary history were the 
 outcome of intentional untruth — which should be borne 
 in mind when consulting the pages of Foxe, who must 
 be read with caution. 
 
 William Jones (1561-1636) was rector of East Bergholt 
 forty-four years, and a monument to his memory is on 
 the north wall of the chancel. We do not, I think, 
 know much about him. Like so many ecclesiastics, 
 he was an author and commentator. In 1636 was 
 published his commentary on the Epistles of St. Paul to 
 Philemon and the Hebrews, and on the First and 
 Second Epistles of St. John. The dust of neglect is now 
 deep on this folio, as on so many others concerned with 
 kindred topics ; but the work was formerly well known, 
 and Laud was charged with having mutilated it to suit 
 his prejudices. It consists of lectures, which Spurgeon 
 found “ very lively, sprightly and colloquial.” Jones, 
 however, was a strong partisan, who did not regard 
 Dissenters as persecuted folk, but compared them to 
 the thieving money-changers whom Christ whipped 
 out of the Temple. I thought, as I lingered in the 
 church where he was wont to preach, that I should like 
 to meet the staunch old churchman face to face, and 
 to hear him discourse, with unctuous fervour, on the 
 blessings of an unquestioning conformity, and the evils 
 that await on such as haunt conventicles. Like his great 
 contemporary, Jeremy Taylor, he was careful for holy 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 58 
 
 dying as for holy living, and having preached for many 
 years on the conduct of life, he wrote a treatise showing 
 how a Godly Christian might best make his last will 
 and testament. 
 
 It is a far cry from Jones to Dr. Durand Rhudde, 
 whose name bulks largely in the life of Constable. At 
 the rectory, Dr. Rhudde was sometimes visited by his 
 grand-daughter Maria, whose father, Charles Bicknell, 
 was Solicitor to the Admiralty. Here at East Bergholt, 
 about the year 1800, Constable met Maria Bicknell, 
 and the acquaintance soon ripened into something 
 deeper than friendship. Some ten years passed, how- 
 ever, before any definite idea of marriage was broached 
 to others, and, owing to opposition from Miss Bicknell’s 
 relatives, it was yet five years more ere, on October 2, 
 1816, the two were wedded at St. Martin’s-in-the- 
 Fields. This opposition came largely from Dr. Rhudde, 
 who had remembered Maria very generously when making 
 his will, but was expected to renounce her if she married 
 Constable — a second son, and an almost penniless nobody 
 in the eyes of the rector. Meantime, the lovers corre- 
 sponded with charming frankness ; their letters, printed 
 in the Memoirs, provide ample proof of their mutual 
 good sense. Dr. Rhudde — we may be quite frank a 
 century after the event — hardly seems to have known his 
 own mind in this matter. Once, hearing that Constable 
 had been permitted to visit Maria, in her father’s home 
 at Spring Gardens, he wrote so violent a letter that his 
 grand-daughter trembled on hearing it read in part — 
 in fact, he declared she was no longer any relative of his. 
 On another occasion, after the marriage, he said at the 
 rectory that he would delight to receive husband and 
 
Willy Lott’s House. 
 

EAST BERGHOLT 
 
 59 
 
 wife if they called upon him ; later on, we learn that 
 Mr. and Mrs. Constable are to visit East Bergholt : 
 “ If they do,” exclaimed the doctor, “ and call upon 
 me, I will not see them.” Finally, however, resentment 
 died down, and when, in 1819, the rector died too, he 
 bequeathed to his grand-daughter a legacy of four 
 thousand pounds. Rhudde was a Cambridge man, and 
 was sometime Chaplain to the King. 
 
 The bell of St. Mary’s Abbey was announcing some 
 customary service as I left the church, to seek rest and 
 refreshment at an inn. At such times, I am often 
 thankful for the comfort, even for the comparative 
 luxury, of the average wayside house in England. For, 
 a rambler myself, I love to read of the rambles of others, 
 and my reading has persuaded me that one may travel in 
 England with the minimum of privation and discomfort. 
 I have never met with filth, or squalor, or incivility 
 comparable to the experiences of men who ramble farther 
 abroad. I have never sojourned at an inn where “ with 
 a glass, a whang of bread, and an iron fork, the table 
 is completely laid ” ; where the floor was of earth ; 
 where the sow wandered freely about the house ; or 
 where the one bedchamber was shared by adult strangers 
 of both sexes ; all of which luxuries were enjoyed by 
 Stevenson at the auberge of Bouchet St. Nicholas. I 
 have never considered new-laid eggs or good butter 
 as rare luxuries, but as such you may read of them in 
 Mr. Henry James’s studied prose, for they were once 
 placed before him in the ancient city of Bourg-en- 
 Bresse. Nor — unlike Mr. Joseph Pennell — have I visited 
 inns where I received no attention save stares, or where, 
 having eaten my supper on the kitchen table, by the 
 
6o 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 light of a candle, I was presently shown into a small 
 closet that did duty for a bedroom, and promised a towel 
 in the morning ! Perhaps I am more fortunate than 
 others ; perhaps — to twist a citation to my purpose — 
 the lines have fallen unto me in pleasant places ; and 
 I ought to say, in the words of Byron and with a more 
 grateful heart, “ this, it should seem, was not reserved 
 for me.” ’Tis an old theme, this discomfort of travellers ; 
 worn threadbare a century back. It behoves every man 
 of us to set down our more cheerful experiences, and to 
 show the brighter side of the picture. 
 
 At the inn at East Bergholt I passed a pleasant hour. 
 I dined ; I chatted with the good folk of the house ; 
 I turned over a collection of photographs from Con- 
 stable’s landscapes, and of scenes in Constable’s country ; 
 I pored upon my map, and I envied no man. Congenial 
 surroundings should improve the flavour of food. Boswell, 
 I will answer for it, never before tasted such veal as lay 
 on the table at Mr. Dilly’s in the Poultry, when Johnson 
 met Jack Wilkes ; and we know that on the day when 
 Hazlitt first saw Coleridge, in the wainscoted parlour at 
 Wem, “ the leg of Welsh mutton and the turnips . . . had 
 the finest flavour imaginable.” Moreover, I overheard 
 much chatter at the bar, and am always grateful for 
 those tributary rivulets of local talk that do so much to 
 swell the larger streams of information. We should 
 never forget, when we visit an inn, that the pot-boy 
 probably knows the neighbourhood far better than 
 we. 
 
 There was chatter enough presently, when I pursued 
 my journey across the fields, and pausing at a gateway, 
 looked down upon Stratford St. Mary in the hollow 
 
EAST BERGHOLT 
 
 61 
 
 below. A man rode up jerkily on a small, sturdy horse, 
 and talked for so long that I began to think we might 
 never part. Seldom have I met another man so deeply 
 sun-burnt. His face and neck were the colour of an 
 old folio, and were marked, moreover, by the “ colonial 
 spot ” seldom acquired save under excessive exposure 
 in the open fields. Such exposure he had known, almost 
 daily, for many years ; he farmed, he told me, some six 
 hundred acres. He always loved to be in the thick of 
 the fray, in seed-time and in harvest. He expressed 
 views which I was surprised, yet pleased, to hear. He 
 spoke lightly of agricultural depression, “ most of the 
 men, and some of the masters, dislike hard work, and 
 there’s an end of half the subject.” If only he could 
 get decent men — “ such men as I knew when I was a boy 
 in Berkshire ! ” It was hard, at the best of times, to 
 find the men one wanted ; but now it is almost im- 
 possible. “ Why, look at this wheat ! Look at the 
 straw, man : feel those grains — there’s no better corn 
 in Mark Lane, and there never will be.” But the devil 
 of it was he could find so few men ; the wheat should 
 have been lifted and away a week back, and now — well, 
 he had to work like a nigger himself. He admitted that, 
 in other industries, there was great scarcity of work, 
 but thought the cause clear as noonday. “ Look here, 
 Sir. For fifty years we’ve been boasting of the increas- 
 ing perfection of our machinery ; we talk of labour- 
 saving appliances ; our one aim is to produce the greatest 
 quantity of goods with the least possible outlay for wages, 
 and we follow this course with increasing success ; we 
 do a great trade, but employ few men in the doing of it. 
 And now we shake our heads over declining industries, 
 
62 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 and bemoan the surprising lack of employment ; was 
 ever such nonsense talked before ? ” 
 
 I can convey no impression of the raciness, nor of the 
 dry humour of this man’s talk. He talked with rapidity, 
 and with facility of allusion and wealth of fact and figure 
 which were surprising. Every now and again he urged 
 his horse forward for a few paces, and presently brought 
 him back to the old position beside the gate ; and every 
 glance round whetted his appetite for discourse, and 
 strengthened his convictions. He made brief raids into 
 the borderland of many topics ; but invariably returned 
 to matters fiscal, which he had studied with avidity in the 
 newspapers. He thought some form of Protection might 
 be good for us all ; in fact, a scheme, rich with the promise 
 of usefulness, lay cut and dried in his own mind. But 
 he would hear nothing of Colonial Preference. “ Sir, 
 it won’t do. The argument don’t hold together. First, 
 they wanted to help the English farmer, who was down 
 on his luck, and who couldn’t make money out of corn 
 because he was undersold by the foreigners. But nothing 
 they are likely to do will bring me one pennyworth of 
 benefit. Why, if you don’t buy corn grown in my 
 field, what do I care whose field it grew in ? I may as 
 well be undersold by one man as another. What use 
 to tax the Russian if you help the Canadian to cut me 
 out ? ” 
 
 Well, here was much good “ copy ” for a newspaper. 
 My friend, I fancy, has by this time felt the pangs of 
 disappointment. For he watched me with interest as 
 I took notes of his talk ; he guessed, correctly, that I 
 scribbled on occasion ; but he further divined that I 
 was walking around in Suffolk for some newspaper in 
 
EAST BERGHOLT 
 
 63 
 
 town ; he promised to look for my “ column or two,” 
 and I permitted him to ride away undeceived. It was 
 long ere I was finally quit of him, or he of me. For 
 several times, as I followed slowly the footpath towards 
 Stratford St. Mary, he rode up again to say something 
 that he had forgotten, or to shake me by the hand once 
 more. I learned neither his name nor that of his farm. 
 Probably this record will never meet his eye. Should 
 it do so, he will own, I think, that I have written of him 
 not unkindly. 
 
 My pen is at the bottom of a page, 
 
 Which being finished, here the story ends. 
 
 The reader may find, in the pages of Byron, the two lines 
 necessary to complete the quotation ; they are derogatory 
 to an author’s sense of importance, and I will not add 
 them here. The Suffolk farmer, if he reads this narrative, 
 may laugh good-humouredly ; he should at least smile 
 as he remembers our encounter in the fields, and the 
 figures we cut. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 STRATFORD ST. MARY 
 
 I passed down into Stratford St. Mary in the light of the 
 setting sun. I had lost much time with my friend, the 
 cheerful farmer, and wondered, as I caught a first glimpse 
 of the church among the trees, how best to compensate 
 my deficiency of leisure. A plan was soon formed. I 
 would go straight to that church ; if possible, I would 
 ascend its tower ; I would retire early and rise with the 
 lark. It is sometimes good to chronicle a resolution ; 
 it is better when one can add that the resolution was 
 honoured, not in the breach, but the observance. 
 
 As it chanced, the first man I met was the sexton. 
 His calling, as one of the brotherhood told his helper, 
 at the grave where Hamlet moralised, is the oldest in the 
 world ; whether earl or ploughman we require his offices 
 at the last. But the sexton often follows more callings 
 than one, for — to vary Henley’s phrase — “ even a sexton 
 has to dine,” and, like other folk, he needs the where- 
 withal. I gathered that the sexton at Stratford St. 
 Mary was no exception to the rule ; but his confessions 
 were uttered sub rosa y and I must not betray confidences. 
 We walked together in the little graveyard, in the red 
 of evening, and he pointed out the headstone to the 
 memory of Anne Richardson, who died in 1803, aged 
 sixty-six. She was the last remaining daughter of 
 
STRATFORD ST. MARY 
 
 65 
 
 Samuel Richardson the novelist, whose portrait, one of 
 several by Highmore, hangs in the National Portrait 
 Gallery, where we see him in his wig and ruffles, knee- 
 breeches, silk stockings, and buckle-shoes ; looking every 
 inch a parson, which he never was, and very proud 
 of his own performances, which, indeed, he never wearied 
 of discussing. 
 
 Of Anne Richardson little is known. To think of her 
 is to think of a generation far different from ours. She 
 was one of several daughters. Strictly brought up by 
 her mother, Richardson’s second wife, she addressed 
 her father as “ Honour’d sir,” and, as a child, seldom 
 saw him save at table. The home in which she passed 
 many of her younger days has long been famous. In 
 Mr. Arnold Glover’s edition of “ Boswell’s Life of John- 
 son ” there is an excellent drawing of this old house, 
 “ now known as No. ill (formerly No. 49), The Grange, 
 North End Road, Fulham.” A part of it was Richard- 
 son’s country home from 1739* till the autumn of 1754, 
 when he removed to Parson’s Green. Anne was there- 
 fore a toddling child when the family settled at North 
 End Road. The house, not till long afterwards known 
 as The Grange, was for many years the home of Sir E. 
 Burne-Jones. In the drawing referred to we see a large, 
 flat-faced residence, with many windows, all alike ; 
 protected by tall, wrought-iron fence and gates. In 
 Richardson’s day it was spoken of as being near Hammer- 
 smith turnpike, and was then quite remote from the 
 
 * Vide “ Samuel Richardson,” by Austin Dobson. In his “ Eighteenth 
 Century Vignettes,” however, Mr. Dobson says that Richardson lived here 
 from 1730 or earlier ; but, in the absence of proof, I have taken the date 
 named in this more recent book as probably correct. 
 
66 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 noise and business of London. Anne survived her father 
 more than forty years. She had copied for him many 
 of his innumerable letters ; these copies, together with 
 the letters received in reply, are preserved in the Forster 
 Collection at South Kensington. We read of Anne’s 
 illness during the progress of the “ History of Sir Charles 
 Grandison ” ; the first four volumes of that inter- 
 minable romance were published when the tenancy of 
 the North End home was nearing its close. Indeed, 
 she was not robust, and her health caused much anxiety 
 to her parents. She was never married. 
 
 Anne Richardson did not greatly interest the sexton 
 at Stratford, and he turned about with willingness when 
 I suggested that we should see the surrounding country 
 from the tower battlements. So together we trod the 
 recurring round of the steep steps in the tower angle ; 
 groping our way in the gloom, our hands upon the guiding 
 rope, our footfalls causing strange echoes. More nervous 
 folk might have come to a sorry pass ; for presently a 
 bat, startled at our approach, darted here and there in 
 noisy excitement, and even when we had left it far below 
 we heard its shrill voice chiding us for the interruption. 
 We came out upon the tower-top in the nick of time ; 
 half an hour later we could have distinguished few features 
 below us in the gathering gloom. But there, to the 
 north-east, stretched the fields where I had loitered in 
 the afternoon ; there, far to the left, the tower at Stoke- 
 by-Nayland looked down upon many miles of rolling 
 pasture- and corn-land ; behind us, the Stour divided 
 the scene between Stratford and Langham. I recognised 
 the truth of words which I had lately read. “ Supposing 
 the visitor enters Suffolk from the south, by the old 
 
STRATFORD ST. MARY 67 
 
 coach road, once, in part, a Roman road, crossing the 
 Stour at Stratford St. Mary, he does so in the immediate 
 neighbourhood of some of the loveliest scenery in the 
 county.” Indeed, from the church tower at Stratford, 
 or from those at Dedham or Langham, the view over 
 the Stour valley is extensive, as will be supposed ; but 
 only those who have overlooked it from such an eminence 
 can realise its commanding beauties. From the tower 
 at Langham, one of many views of the Vale of Dedham 
 was painted by Constable ; and in his brief remarks on his 
 Summer Morning, one of the 44 English Landscape ” series, 
 he wrote, 46 This view of the beautiful valley of the Stour 
 ... is taken from Langham, an elevated spot to the 
 N.W. of Dedham, where the elegance of the tower of 
 Dedham Church is seen to much advantage, being opposed 
 to a branch of the sea at Harwich, where this meander- 
 ing river loses itself.” Particular scenes, however, evoke 
 widely differing opinions of their merit. Stevenson once 
 started to ramble in the Stour valley, but soon returned, 
 partly by reason of a sore heel, but also because he had 
 found it 44 not singularly pretty on the road.” 
 
 44 In part, a Roman road.” Ah, those Roman roads ! 
 What memories, or shall I say what fancies, they inspire ? 
 The Roman strove to render every part of his immense 
 territories easy of access, whether for transit of goods 
 or for personal travel, and during his domination of our 
 island home he left his mark upon highway and byway ; 
 he planned and perfected many thoroughfares which 
 we still tread. Two routes mentioned in Antonine’s 
 44 Itinerary,” No. 5 and No. 9, traversed Suffolk ; and 
 Stratford St. Mary has been identified with the station 
 Ad Ansam , on the latter route. The name, it has been 
 
68 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 suggested, was from the low Latin ansaria , signifying 
 market produce, and a British market, memorialised 
 by Chipping Hill in this parish, perhaps suggested the 
 application of the word.* The name, as regards popular 
 use, was probably short-lived, and some variant of Strat- 
 ford would soon be employed, as more closely applicable 
 to a spot where the street ford crossed the river. Stratford, 
 unlike so many villages in England, was never perhaps 
 much larger than it is to-day ; but it certainly knew 
 more bustle and stir when the stage-coach drew up near 
 the bridge, on its journey from London to Ipswich, 
 or from Ipswich to London. They were the events of 
 the day, the arrival and departure of the coach, with its 
 astonishing assortment of luggage and curiously contrasted 
 passengers — old women and infants ; snuffy old fogies 
 and pert or timid misses. We know, from a thousand 
 records, how oddly they were sometimes suited, and how 
 fiercely, on occasion, they quarrelled by the way. Mr. 
 Outram Tristram has written of them with a running 
 pen ; Mr. Hugh Thomson has drawn them with ad- 
 mirable skill ; and they live for us, more vividly than 
 many bygones, in the pages of “ Coaching Days and 
 Coaching Ways.” 
 
 Stranger sights than the passing of the coach were seen 
 upon this old highway, very many years ago. For the 
 men of Suffolk and Norfolk reared turkeys for the London 
 markets in astonishing numbers, and used to send them 
 thither in droves. Defoe, when rambling in East Anglia, 
 was told by a Stratford man that each drove numbered 
 from three hundred to a thousand birds, and that, in 
 one season, as many as three hundred droves had passed 
 * Raven J Sj“ History of Suffolk.” 
 
STRATFORD ST. MARY 69 
 
 into Essex by way of Stratford Bridge. Other droves 
 passed the Stour at Clare or Sudbury ; geese were sent 
 also ; and Defoe was assured that more birds went yearly 
 to London from Suffolk, and the southern half of Norfolk, 
 than from all the rest of England. The journey must 
 have been long and tedious ; the geese usually started 
 on their long walk in August, for the corn harvests were 
 then for the most part over, and the birds could feed 
 among the stubble as they went. Sometimes, however, 
 both turkeys and geese travelled in specially contrived 
 carts. Defoe’s words, as a picture of the past, are worth 
 quoting : “ Besides the methods of driving these creatures 
 on foot, they have of late also invented a new method of 
 carriage, being carts formed on purpose, with four stories 
 or stages to put the creatures in one above another, by 
 which invention one cart will carry a very great number ; 
 and for the smoother going they drive with two horses 
 abreast, like a coach, so quartering the road for the ease 
 of the gentry that thus ride. Changing horses, they 
 travel night and day, so that they bring the fowls seventy, 
 eighty or one hundred miles in two days and one night. 
 The horses in this new-fashioned voiture go two abreast, 
 as above, but no perch below, as in a coach, but they are 
 fastened together by a piece of wood lying crosswise 
 upon their necks, by which they are kept even and 
 together, and the driver sits on the top of the cart like 
 as in the public carriages for the army, &c.” In this, 
 as in so much else, the old order changeth. The appear- 
 ance of a large drove of turkeys on Stratford Bridge 
 would now furnish a topic for copious discussion ; and 
 farmers in Essex and Suffolk would thence foretell the 
 return of the good old days. 
 
70 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 All days are good or evil, according to the point of 
 view. Those were evil days in the eyes of churchgoers 
 in Suffolk, when Cromwell ruled ; and one William 
 Dowsing, who lived awhile in this pleasant village, earned 
 much unenviable notoriety as an iconoclast. Despite a 
 deal of careful research, his is a shadowy figure in the 
 avenue of time ; for our knowledge of him is largely 
 derived from a narrative by his own hand, which has 
 been much garbled. He was one of a family at Lax- 
 field, where, as the register shows, he was baptized on 
 May 2, 1596, and buried on March 14, 1679.* 
 career affords a striking illustration of the old adage that 
 extremes always meet. The ecclesiastical rigidity of 
 Laud led to the Puritanical violence of his immediate 
 successors. Laud had done his work so thoroughly that 
 “ the Bishops of several extensive dioceses were able to 
 report to him that not a single dissenter was to be found 
 within their jurisdiction.” This was in 1639 ? 7 et so 
 rapid was the whirligig of politico-religious opinion 
 that in 1643 an Ordinance was passed which proved 
 disastrous to all the externals of that worship so zealously 
 fostered by Laud. The Earl of Manchester, as General 
 of the Associated Eastern Counties, employed Dowsing 
 to visit the chapels and churches of Suffolk, and to destroy 
 crucifixes, altars, statues, pictures — in short, almost every- 
 thing which he deemed superstitious. Dowsing went to 
 this work with relish. The destruction was largely accom- 
 plished during the early part of 1644 ; we read that one 
 hundred and fifty buildings were visited in fifty days. 
 
 • The article on Dowsing in the “ Diet. Nat. Biography,” questions both 
 these dates, as also Dowsing’s burial at Laxfield ; I do not know upon what 
 grounds. 
 
STRATFORD ST. MARY 
 
 7i 
 
 Those buildings bore the marks of that visitation for 
 many years ; for no light hands were laid upon them. 
 I have already mentioned how, at Clare, Dowsing found 
 “ 1000 superstitious pictures”; at Stoke-by-Nayland, 
 close to Stratford, he and his zealots “ brake down an 
 100 superstitious pictures ; and took up 7 superstitious 
 inscriptions on the gravestones.” Moreover, insult was 
 added to injury, for the unwelcome visitors usually 
 demanded from the churchwardens a fee of 6 s. Sd. for 
 their services ! 
 
 These and similar doings were recorded by Dowsing 
 in a Journal, apparently written as he moved from place 
 to place. The Journal was bought by Huse, a book- 
 seller in London, in 1704 ; it has, so far as we know, long 
 since been lost. Rut it was transcribed, at least in part, 
 by Robert Loder, a printer and antiquary of some note 
 in Suffolk, and was published at Woodbridge. I am not 
 partial to forms and ceremonies ; nor to crucifixes and 
 pictures, whether “ superstitious ” or not, in places of 
 worship ; but I try, at times, to stand in other men’s 
 shoes, and can sympathise with one who wrote of Dowsing 
 as a “ portentious clown, of whom the bitterest Puritan 
 of the present day is probably ashamed.” Singularly 
 enough, as we may note in passing, a Dowsing, from 
 the same village of Laxfield, was instrumental in the 
 burning of John Noyes in the reign of Mary. Isaac 
 D’Israeli, in his “ Curiosities of Literature,” likens 
 Dowsing to a fanatical Quixote, who despoiled many 
 cathedral saints of their noses, and mentions that Hall, 
 when Bishop of Norwich, removed the heads from the 
 figures in his chapel windows and thereby preserved 
 them. He asserts, too, that the figures with heads of 
 
72 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 white glass, occasionally seen in churches, are due to a 
 similar cause. 
 
 I cannot say what damage was done by Dowsing in 
 Stratford Church. His Journal is not at my elbow, and 
 probably few men now in the village ever heard his name. 
 The church is largely Perpendicular, with fine aisle- 
 windows characteristic of the period; but the chancel 
 is Decorated. It contains features of interest — a Jaco- 
 bean altar-table ; the arms of the Black Prince in stained 
 glass ; some Latin inscriptions on the exterior of the 
 north aisle. Like the tower, the clerestory and aisles 
 are battlemented ; but the plain sloping roof at the west 
 end of the nave mars the effect of the whole. A few 
 ancient memorials have survived the hand of time, 
 and that of the restorer ; but they are not of historic 
 importance. 
 
 Rain fell in the night, but the sun shone brightly 
 betimes next morning, and the country folk were thankful 
 for the needed shower. Their corn, they told me, 
 was for the most part off the land, and rain was sadly 
 wanted by the gardener. Larks sang freely as I ap- 
 proached Stratford Mill, shaking out their notes in a sort 
 of triumph ; the scene, from their point of view, was 
 doubtless sufficiently inspiring — the winding river ; 
 the willows that shook the rain-drops from their leaves ; 
 the lusty youngsters that met me near the mill, with 
 spikes of purple loosestrife drooping from their gathered 
 pinafores ; the cattle that strayed on the distant up- 
 lands, where deep shadows from the clouds moved slowly, 
 like infantry passing along the sky-line. The mill, it 
 need hardly be said, is not that painted by Constable 
 and engraved by Lucas. “ Though much is taken, 
 
STRATFORD ST. MARY 
 
 73 
 
 much abides ” ; but the old mills, so faithfully depicted 
 by many English artists of the older schools, are for the 
 most part gone. Their very site is at times forgotten ; 
 sometimes, as here at Stratford, and at Dedham hard 
 by, it is marked by a far larger structure in brick, which 
 can hardly, by the exercise of the most consummate art, 
 do duty for a picture. The old water-wheel, and part 
 of the mill itself, are seen on the left of Constable’s 
 picture ; a barge floats on the limpid water in the middle 
 distance ; there are willows, living and dead, disposed 
 about the centre, and a group of boys — “ young Wal- 
 tonians ” Lucas called them — are fishing in the fore- 
 ground. Constable told the engraver how, when water 
 reaches the root-tips of the willow, the tree perishes, 
 and the dead tree at the Stour’s edge illustrates the fact. 
 The mill is gone ; but we may follow the Stour as it 
 winds towards Nayland Lock, as I shall presently do, 
 and may still see how faithfully Constable, in a score of 
 large pictures, caught the hue and tints of water, sedge, 
 and flower, even of the earth itself. In these matters 
 of detail his efforts were indeed unwearying. When 
 at Petworth, near the close of his life, he not only sketched 
 before breakfast, but collected bits of lichen-freckled 
 bark, richly coloured feathers, and portions of earth 
 or sand. The true artist, be he painter or poet, never 
 despises trifles. 
 
 Near Stratford Mill, on the Essex side of the Stour, 
 stands a small red-tiled cottage. It is at the parting 
 of the ways, which points you to Ipswich, or Col- 
 chester, or Dedham, as inclination or business prompts. 
 Near by a steep ascent has proved difficult to genera- 
 tions of man and beast ; and the occupant of that 
 
74 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 cottage has placed some salutary advice above his 
 doorway : 
 
 Rest drivers, rest on this steep hill, 
 
 Dumb beasts pray use with all good will, 
 
 Goad not, scourge not, with thonged whips, 
 
 Let not one curse escape your lips. 
 
 The merciful man is merciful to his beast. I would 
 rather be the man (or the woman) who placed those lines 
 where they might catch the eye, than the inn-keeper 
 whom Stevenson blessed — because he had provided a 
 goad, contrived with devilish ingenuity, wherewith his 
 guest might urge the mouse-coloured Modestine upon 
 her way. 
 
 Any road, as Carlyle tells us, will lead anywhere. 
 A turning near Stratford Bridge will lead you, after 
 various divagations, to the church at Langham, where 
 you will know yourself in the neighbourhood of the 
 Glebe Farm, now so greatly altered. Constable loved 
 the scenery hereabouts for its own sake, as well as for its 
 commanding outlook over the Vale of Dedham. He 
 loved its associations too ; for Fisher, staunchest of 
 friends, who afterwards became Bishop of Salisbury, 
 was Rector of Langham ; his nephew John, familiar 
 to us as Archdeacon Fisher, was at school with the artist. 
 The Glebe Farm was close to the Early English Church 
 of St. Mary. The picture so entitled now hangs, as I 
 have said, in the National Gallery, and has peculiar 
 claims upon our attention ; for Constable told Leslie 
 that it was one of the pictures upon which he rested his 
 “ little pretensions to futurity.” It has many merits. 
 It shows a lane winding between well-wooded banks ; 
 the gabled farm-house, embowered among trees, is on 
 
The Hay Wain. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
STRATFORD ST. MARY 
 
 75 
 
 the right ; behind it rises the tower of Langham Church. 
 A sketch of the scene, almost identical in disposition, 
 hangs beneath the finished picture. The picture was 
 chosen, among others, to represent the artist’s work at 
 Worcester. The same subject was engraved by Lucas 
 for the “ English Landscape ” series of plates ; but the 
 prints were so dark that the half-tones were merged in 
 the general blackness, and greatly disappointed Constable. 
 A Glebe Farm is also at the Louvre (1810). This I have 
 not seen ; but it depicts, I believe, essentially the same 
 scene as those in the National Gallery : “ Au milieu 
 des arbres on aper^oit le clocher de l’eglise de Langham.” 
 The neighbourhood, like that of Flatford Mill, has 
 appealed to other artists. A view at Langham — I 
 forget the exact title — very lovely in colour and striking 
 in subject, was recently exhibited in Cheapside. But 
 Constable’s Glebe Farm — the one best known to us — 
 is unique, as he foresaw it would be ; it has charms 
 which no other landscape, however similar in subject, 
 “ can utterly abolish or destroy.” As he once observed : 
 “ The world is wide ; no two days are alike, nor even two 
 hours, neither were there ever two leaves of a tree alike 
 since the creation of the world ; and the genuine produc- 
 tions of Art, like those of Nature, are all distinct from each 
 other.” The Glebe Farm was painted about the same 
 time as Fhe Cornfield (1826); it was exhibited in 1827. 
 According to Appendix I. to Lord Windsor’s “ John 
 Constable,” it was offered for sale in 1863, and bought 
 in for .£819; ' m J 888 it was bequeathed to the nation 
 by Miss Constable. The Glebe Farm bought by Messrs. 
 Agnew in 1876 was a smaller picture. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 BOXTED AND NAYLAND 
 
 I had loitered in Stratford St. Mary till evening was 
 already far advanced, and it was dusk ere I approached 
 Boxted. It was Bank Holiday — a fact of which I was 
 unpleasantly reminded. Nowhere could I find a bed 
 for the night. I passed few inns on my way to Boxted, 
 and those few were full. At the last one, on a hilltop, 
 the good lady of the house came forward to explain the 
 situation with profuse apologies. On Bank Holidays 
 all the folk round about received visits from sons and 
 daughters who lived in London, or elsewhere far away ; 
 “ I doubt,” added she, “ if there is a bed to spare for 
 miles round.” So I turned once again into the growing 
 darkness. I walked for some distance on the road to 
 Colchester, thereby getting farther from Boxted, where 
 I had hoped to sleep. Coming presently to an inn, I 
 heard violent scuffling in the bar, and much unsavoury 
 language. So I knocked at a neighbouring cottage, and 
 was again told that “ nowheres about here ” was there 
 a room to spare. To shorten a long story, I merely 
 record that I walked, for nearly four hours, from village 
 to village, and that at length, at an inn near Boxted 
 Church, where I had been refused earlier in the evening, 
 I prevailed upon the hostess to accommodate me for the 
 night. 
 
BOXTED AND NAYLAND 
 
 77 
 
 That hostess was the embodiment of civility, and 
 presently, as I sat at supper, an explanation was offered. 
 Her good man had suffered much in the past from the 
 rough horse-play of trippers from Colchester, Ipswich and 
 elsewhere — so much so that host and hostess had long 
 since decided to receive no strangers when either was 
 from home. Mine host had that morning driven to 
 Colchester, and had not yet returned, so my reception 
 at the second time of asking was an unusual favour, for 
 which I was thankful. I gathered after a while that 
 chance visitors had probably robbed this worthy pair 
 of their due, for some lines that faced me on the wall 
 seemed to say as much : 
 
 Since man to man is so unjust, 
 
 No man can tell whom he can trust. 
 
 I have trusted many to my sorrow, 
 
 So pay to-day and trust to-morrow. 
 
 How cosy they are— these little parlours in wayside 
 inns ! The friendly ejaculations of the wag-at-the-wall 
 clock ; the brightly coloured almanacs ; the large 
 pictures taken from the London weeklies, portraying 
 a fashionable wedding, or some hair-breadth escapes 
 in the imminent deadly breaches of Afghanistan or the 
 Transvaal ; the huge shells and faded photographs on 
 the mantelboard ; the quaintly contrived map of 
 England, worked in coloured threads by the daughter 
 of the house ; the well-rubbed Windsor chairs ; the 
 likeness of Beaconsfield or Gladstone that looks down 
 upon you serenely as you sit at meat. And then the 
 one small row of books in the recess — “ The Prince of the 
 House of David,” “ Marmion,” “ The Lamplighter,” 
 “ Queechy,” “ Sandford and Merton,” “ The Pilgrim’s 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 78 
 
 Progress,” “ The Saint’s Everlasting Rest.” They are 
 all old friends. May they yet live long in the land ! 
 
 I was abroad early next morning, for even at tiny, 
 retired Boxted the builder is busy, and soon after sunrise 
 the clink of the trowel was too persistent to permit of 
 sleep. So I sauntered around the village in the fresh 
 morning air, finding little of historic interest, but a fine 
 view over the valley of the Stour, with the tall tower of 
 Stoke-by-Nayland in the far distance. That tower, 
 one hundred and twenty feet high, is conspicuous for 
 many miles around. I had seen it from the battlements 
 of Stratford St. Mary Church, and knew its aspect, 
 long before, from Constable’s View at Stoke-by-N ayland, 
 an oil sketch at South Kensington. Of this church 
 Constable wrote : “ The length of the nave, with its 
 continuous line of embattled parapet, and its finely pro- 
 portioned chancel, may challenge the admiration of the 
 architect, as well as its majestic tower, which from its 
 commanding height may be said to impart a portion of 
 its own dignity to the surrounding country.” 
 
 Later in the morning, I went to see the “ little Norman 
 church ” of St. Peter at Boxted, a much altered structure 
 with low, massive tower, and a large dormer window 
 projecting from the roof of the nave on the south side. 
 In the graveyard stands no headstone of note ; but the 
 church shows several interesting memorials and a huge 
 oak chest in the vestry, which has seen many parsons 
 come and go. There is a tablet to Mrs. Sarah Bridges, 
 who died in 1777 ; “ though she lived in the latter days 
 her wisdom and piety would have adorned the purest 
 ages of the church.” A strange encomium, as we per- 
 ceive, clearly enough, if we trouble to reflect. For in 
 
BOXTED AND NAYLAND 
 
 79 
 
 every age live pious souls who think they have fallen upon 
 evil times ; it is always the “ latter days,” and we think, 
 with many twinges of conscience, of the purer orthodoxy 
 of our fathers. Perhaps, as things theological are going, 
 our sons in turn will regard us as stalwarts of a fast- 
 waning but sounder theology than their own, and the 
 Higher Critic of one generation may be the orthodox 
 pattern of another. Good Mrs. Bridges had lived through 
 the days of Doddridge and Newton and Cowper ; she 
 may have listened to Horsley or Romaine, to Law or 
 Wesley. What was wrong then, with the Gospel, or its 
 expounders or hearers, that writers of epitaphs should 
 bemoan those “ latter days ” ? 
 
 A monument in the chancel at Boxted is of interest 
 to literary folk. It bears an inscription in Latin to 
 the memory of Sir Richard Blackmore and his wife. 
 Blackmore, as readers may remember, was a dull writer 
 honoured with the name of poet. He wrote a prodigious 
 quantity of verse, and more epics than any other English 
 bard except Southey ; for which reason Pope, in the 
 “Dunciad,” styles him the “ everlasting Blackmore.” 
 His name suggests many memories. Johnson did more 
 than justice to the poet when, as he tells us in his “ Life 
 of Watts,” he recommended Blackmore’s inclusion in 
 the “ Most Eminent English Poets.” Like many 
 another poet long since forgotten, Blackmore enjoyed 
 considerable vogue in his day. He commenced poet in 
 earnest when, in 1695, he published “ Prince Arthur,” 
 in ten books, of which three editions were sold in two 
 years. He did not always enjoy such sales. Of his 
 “ Eliza ” — another long heroic — Johnson records that he 
 had never met with a quotation or allusion to it, and 
 
8o 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 adds that he borrowed the only copy he ever saw when he 
 wrote the Life of its author. “The Creation,” a philo- 
 sophical poem in seven books, was more widely read. 
 Published in 1712, it is perhaps Blackmore’s best work. 
 It was warmly commended by Addison, who alluded to it 
 in the Spectator (No. 339). It was praised, too, by Steele, 
 who, in No. 6 of the same journal, while the poem was 
 still in the making, wrote of its author’s good sense and 
 virtue. Blackmore, however, was to feel the sting of 
 Steele’s wit, for his poem “ Advice to a Weaver of 
 Tapestry,” was ridiculed by the essayist in the Tatler, 
 Blackmore also essayed to expound the Scriptures. 
 Does the reader possess that weighty folio, published in 
 1700, in which Blackmore paraphrases the Book of Job, 
 the 3rd chapter of Habakkuk, and other select portions ? 
 If he does, and has never found time to read it — a 
 plausible conjecture — he may turn, for an opinion of 
 its merits, to another shelf. He may take down “ Com- 
 menting and Commentaries,” by C. H. Spurgeon, and 
 there find a characteristic comment on the literary 
 and spiritual merits of Blackmore’s folio : “ Grandiose 
 poetry. The worthy knight is not the worst of the 
 poetical expositors, bat he is bad enough.” The para- 
 phrase aroused the ire of Dryden, who, as Johnson puts 
 it, was Blackmore’s professed adversary, and lived long 
 enough to ridicule him in a prologue, and to set the wits 
 of Will’s coffee-house laughing at “ quack Maurus.” 
 Johnson treats Blackmore, in the Life, with more respect 
 than may have been expected at his hands, for once, in 
 the presence of Boswell, Steevens and Tyers, he said 
 that the critics had done Blackmore too much honour 
 by writing so continuously against him. Nor did the 
 
BOXTED AND NAYLAND 
 
 81 
 
 Doctor think much of the poet’s originality ; for he told 
 the same friends that “The Creation” contained lines 
 by Phillips, Tickell and others, and had thus been “ made 
 out.” Phillips himself assured Draper the bookseller 
 that the poem had been so much amended as hardly 
 to contain thirty consecutive lines as originally penned 
 by Blackmore. Reading between the lines of Johnson’s 
 brief account of the poet, we see, I think, that Blackmore 
 was admired by his biographer for his morals rather than 
 for his poetry or prose. The two men held many views 
 in common. Both thought lightly of players ; both 
 looked askance at Swift ; both were zealous Churchmen. 
 
 I might mention other volumes from Blackmore’s 
 pen, now almost entirely forgotten. Their author, 
 whose monument here at Boxted is seldom visited for 
 his memory’s sake, was for some years in residence at 
 Oxford, and studied medicine at Padua. Later, he 
 lived in Cheapside, and was a Fellow of the College 
 of Physicians ; he retired to Boxted in 1722. For a 
 time, he enjoyed a large practice ; but this, like his 
 literary reputation, waned in his later days. When he 
 no longer had many patients to cure he wrote books 
 instructing them how to cure themselves, and wrote 
 so many that Johnson doubted if he could enumerate 
 them all. In 1697 he was appointed a Physician in 
 Ordinary to the King; and was knighted. On July 30, 
 1714, he was hastily summoned, with Arbuthnot and 
 others, to consult upon the condition of Queen Anne, 
 who died on the following Sunday. It is recorded that 
 his end was peaceful. He had been engaged upon a 
 work entitled “ The Accomplished Preacher ; or, an Essay 
 upon Divine Eloquence,” but was taken ill before its 
 
82 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 publication, and died on October 8, 1729. During his 
 illness he was visited by White, the parson of Nayland, 
 who afterwards published his friend’s book, and left a 
 record of the piety of its author. It would be difficult 
 to name an equally voluminous author whose works are 
 so uniformly neglected. His name is kept in memory 
 by the sneer of Pope, the allusions of Addison 
 and Steele, and the Life by Johnson. Outside, 
 the great light of August was almost intolerable after 
 the gloom of the church, and the landscape swam before 
 me as I looked westward. The old caretaker to whom 
 I returned the huge key of the south door was obviously 
 surprised when I expressed an interest in Blackmore’s 
 monument. She seemed, however, proud of her posi- 
 tion as door-keeper in the house of her God. I gave 
 her a photograph of the church, and the old lady 
 was so delighted that she at once placed it among her 
 treasures on the bureau. It was a justifiable carrying 
 of coals to Newcastle, for she assured me she had seen 
 no photograph like it before. 
 
 Boxted suggests a passing allusion to the Dedham 
 Classis. The members held their fourth meeting here, 
 on March 4, 1582-1583. The speaker for the occasion 
 was Anthony Morse ; the moderator, Richard Dowe. 
 Morse lived at Stratford (? St. Mary) ; as did also Dowe. 
 Morse was evidently highly esteemed, for, although he 
 held no benefice or recognised pastorate, he “ accepted 
 of a calling ” to minister to the household of Sir Drew 
 Drury, and it was no mean distinction for such a man 
 to act as speaker at a meeting of the Classis. Dowe, 
 as we learn from Neale’s “ History of the Puritans,” was 
 suspended, in 1575, by Bishop Freke. He was an active 
 
BOXTED AND NAYLAND 83 
 
 member of the Classis — a man of whom we catch interest- 
 ing glimpses in the Minute Book. Previous to the 
 meeting at Boxted, the Classis had foregathered at Strat- 
 ford, when Dowe brought up an important question for 
 consideration : “ Whether a man divorced from his first 
 wife justly and marrying a second should retain the second 
 as his wife.” The question was left to be determined 
 when they met at Boxted. I quote the “ finding ” 
 from the Dedham Minute Book, only modernising the 
 spelling. “ It was concluded that the Word of God 
 alloweth that a man justly divorced from his first wife 
 might marry a second, so his proceeding to the second 
 marriage be orderly and in the Lord.” On another 
 occasion, Dowe was prominent in an attempt to prohibit 
 dancing round the May-pole, but the attempt was not 
 successful ; and once, when the Classis met at Wenham, 
 he asked what could be done touching a wicked man, 
 who, as was commonly known, beat his wife. Could such 
 be received to the Communion without public confession 
 of his fault ? These, perhaps, are but trivial records 
 of a local worthy ; but they have only recently been 
 published abroad, and some dweller at Boxted may read 
 them here for the first time. 
 
 Ecclesiastical memories of much older date are asso- 
 ciated with Little Horksley, a village close to Boxted, 
 where once stood a Priory of Cluniac monks, founded 
 in the reign of Henry I. A house near the church stands 
 on the Priory site. The church itself is ancient ; it is 
 the resting-place of many Swynbornes, who lived in the 
 Hall hard by. They lived so long ago that some mutilated 
 effigies of carved oak, thought to date from the twelfth 
 century, are also thought to represent members of the 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 84 
 
 family. Other effigies, in plate armour, are those of 
 Sir Robert Swynborne and Sir Thomas his son ; they 
 repose under a wonderfully wrought triple canopy, with 
 crocketed pinnacles.* But I did not turn aside in my 
 ramble to visit Little Horksley, which lies some three 
 miles southwards from Nayland, whither I was bound. 
 Since leaving Stratford St. Mary, my route had kept me 
 in Essex, but Suffolk was almost continuously in sight, 
 and a beautiful view of the county stretched before me 
 as I loitered among the cornfields that look down upon 
 the Stour. Reaping machines were busy among the 
 yellow acres ; these, and the sight of other agricultural 
 implements, reminded me of Jefferies. For in “ Notes 
 on Landscape Painting,” Jefferies writes of those who, 
 when they depict landscape scenery on canvas, pur- 
 posely omit such objects as steam-ploughs and reaping 
 machines. He contends that they are wrong, and I 
 think the contention just. Constable seldom if ever 
 erred in this way. He is homely as Morland. He 
 gives us the windmill, the farm-cart, the plough, the 
 barge ; he would, we may feel sure, have depicted 
 the steam-plough and the reaping machine had he 
 known them. 
 
 On the road from Boxted to Nayland I saw innumerable 
 harebells. Has the reader noticed how frequently they 
 grow in numbers beside the upland road or lane, where 
 we might suppose so fragile a plant would perish ? We 
 might, rather, expect to find them in sheltered corners 
 of lowland meadows, where passing winds are tempered 
 to the shorn lamb, and the feebler flies find refuge from 
 the storm and stress of higher lands. But the harebell 
 * Vide Durrant’s “ Essex.” 
 
BOXTED AND NAYLAND 85 
 
 grows plentifully in exposed situations, and although it 
 soon withers in the hand it seems impervious to the 
 driving rain. Presently a footpath led me across meadows 
 to a lock upon the Stour, near the wooden bridge that 
 parts Essex from Suffolk. It was a typical English scene 
 — the falling water, flashing in the sunlight ; the tall 
 flowering rushes in mid-stream ; the green arrow- 
 heads ; the boats under the shadow of the willows ; the 
 cattle grazing in the adjacent fields ; the merry voices 
 of youngsters fishing — with very primitive tackle — for 
 gudgeons ; just such “ young Waltonians ” as Constable 
 painted in his Stratford Mill . Before me, as I rested 
 beside the stream, stretched the scattered village of 
 Nayland, its pinnacled church tower peeping between 
 trees. There is a mood of placid content not easy to 
 describe — a mood in which you almost lose all idea of 
 individuality, seeming to be rather part and parcel of 
 your environment, a mood experienced (if I read the 
 narrative rightly) by Stevenson, during his inland 
 voyageupon the Oise from Compiegne towards Verberie. 
 At such times, if thoughts of God arise, we remember, 
 perhaps, those lines by Coleridge which so aptly voice 
 the aspirations of many : 
 
 It may indeed be phantasy when I 
 
 Essay to draw from all created things 
 
 Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings ; 
 
 And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie 
 Lessons of love and earnest piety. . . .' 
 
 So will I build my altar in the fields, 
 
 And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be, 
 
 And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields 
 Shall be the incense I will yield to thee, 
 
 Thee only God ! and thou shalt not despise 
 Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice. 
 
86 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 I was on foot again betimes, and entered Nayland by 
 way of Abel Bridge. A clothier named Abel was the 
 reputed builder of the church, and his tomb is in the 
 south wall ; perhaps he also built the bridge that bears 
 his name. An old native, with whom I chatted by the 
 riverside, knew nothing of Abel ; but he knew much 
 concerning the Nayland of more recent times. From 
 the river he had taken many perch, roach, dace, gudgeons 
 and small jack. He boasted of his captures, as was 
 the wont of anglers even before the days of their master 
 Izaak, and could “ call to mind ” roach weighing one 
 and a half pounds each. He knew men who had caught 
 jack “ well over eight pounds,” but had personally 
 known no such luck, for his heaviest fish had weighed 
 but three. He made the humiliating confession with 
 obvious reluctance, and was glad to turn to other topics. 
 We sauntered into the town together. He pointed 
 out The Butcher’s Arms, where a cask, sawn in half 
 longwise, does duty for a sign ; and an old, red-tiled 
 cottage opposite, bearing a shield, and the inscription 
 “ L. I. H. 1690.” More picturesque are the cottages 
 that line the back-wash from Nayland Mill. The water 
 is spanned by slender footbridges of brick, with timber 
 hand-rails ; I saw the scarlet water-iris in bloom beneath, 
 and “ flowers of all hues ” in the narrow strips of garden 
 between the doorways and the bridges. Near by stands 
 the huge brick mill, long since disused ; on either side 
 of the door are two mill-stones, brought years ago from 
 Higham, when the oil mill there was burnt. Many such 
 stones are now used as doorsteps by country folk. Outside 
 the mill stood a Nayland patriarch who had charge of its 
 machinery thirty years ago. He could remember when 
 
The Valley Farm 
 
BOXTED AND NAYLAND 
 
 87 
 
 thirty loads of wheat, mostly grown in the neighbourhood, 
 had stood together outside the mill, awaiting their turn 
 to discharge. He had seen a hundred sacks unloaded 
 before breakfast, and could remember when fourteen 
 hundred sacks of flour were sent in one week to London. 
 In those days, thirty gangs (pairs) of barges plied between 
 Mistley and Sudbury ; there are now but three. Nay- 
 land Mill was bought, some years back, for conversion 
 into a leather factory ; but it proved too large, and 
 a smaller building near by was utilised instead, in 
 which, as my old friend affirmed, three hundred girls 
 had sometimes worked together. 
 
 Presently we reached a far different topic. As a boy, 
 John had worked in the Red Barn at Polstead, and was 
 in the neighbourhood when it was burnt down. Need 
 I say that we were both thinking of that perennially 
 interesting topic, the story of Maria Martin and the Red 
 Barn ? Polstead is a small, scattered village in the valley 
 of the Box, close to Nayland. There, not far from the 
 church, you may still see a small cottage, once the home 
 of Maria Martin. Her story, so often repeated with 
 contradictory details, has been recently summarised in 
 “ Highways and Byways in East Anglia,” and it is hard 
 coming after Mr. Dutt. But the subject cannot be 
 ignored in the neighbourhood of Polstead — nor, indeed, 
 anywhere in Suffolk, as every East Anglian knows. So 
 well worn a story may be dismissed in a few sentences. 
 Those already acquainted with it may take the advice 
 of Chaucer. They may turn over the page, and read 
 another tale. 
 
 In 1827, there lived at Polstead a mole-catcher named 
 Martin. His daughter, Maria, was foolishly partial to 
 
88 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 a young man named William Corder. The two lovers 
 were accustomed to meet in a barn belonging to Corder’s 
 father. Even this fact has interested many, and once? 
 when staying at an inn at Long Melford, I was shown 
 a print entitled Maria Martin’s First Visit to the Red 
 Barn. Now Corder represented that his parents con- 
 sidered the alliance undesirable ; so a plan was secretly 
 concocted whereby the marriage might be furthered. 
 Maria, dressed as a man, was to meet Corder at the Red 
 Barn ; there she was to change her clothes, and the pair 
 would journey to Ipswich, and be married. Accordingly, 
 Maria left her home shortly afterwards, and was never 
 again seen alive by her parents. Only a few days later 
 Corder was met by Maria’s stepmother, who naturally 
 inquired as to the young woman’s whereabouts. Corder 
 told her that Maria was at Ipswich, and that he had 
 arranged to marry her soon. He remained at Polstead 
 many weeks, repeating the same story from time to 
 time ; then he suddenly left, stating that the marriage, 
 after all, would be at Yarmouth. To Yarmouth, how- 
 ever, Corder did not go ; but he went to London. 
 Letters reached the Martins, stating that the marriage 
 had taken place, and that the couple were living in town. 
 But Mrs. Martin had a strange experience, which led to 
 stranger results. Three times — as the story runs — she 
 dreamed that Maria’s body lay under a particular spot 
 in the Red Barn. Search was made, and the body found 
 exactly where Mrs. Martin had seen it in dreams. Corder 
 was arrested in London, tried at Bury St. Edmunds, 
 ultimately confessed that he had murdered Maria, and 
 was hanged for his crime. The whole story is sufficiently 
 gruesome to have engaged the attention of strolling 
 
BOXTED AND NAYLAND 
 
 89 
 
 players, and many a town in England has witnessed a 
 crude drama founded on these facts, and usually entitled 
 Maria Martin and the Red Barn; or , Murder Will Out . 
 As a youngster, I myself witnessed it at St. Alban’s ; and 
 have seen it placarded here and there in the course of 
 rambles in several counties. Many a time have I heard 
 the story from the lips of an old lady of sterling cha- 
 racter, who dearly loved to recite it before an apprecia- 
 tive if small audience. From her I can hear it no more, 
 for she lies in the little churchyard at Colgate, in sunny 
 Sussex. 
 
 I am wandering from Nayland ; but who can resist 
 an old story ? Is it not old stories that appeal to us 
 again, as we turn from the mill-stream and the street, 
 and enter the ancient parish church ? For the 
 church of St. Stephen at Nayland, Constable painted 
 his second altar-piece, a half-figure, beneath which 
 might appropriately be written, “ He took the cup and 
 gave thanks.” Painted in 1809, the picture, as Lord 
 Windsor thinks, proves that Constable had profited by 
 his recent study of Reynolds, for he had been copying 
 some of the master’s works for Lord Dysart. But the 
 piece has been much criticised, and most connoisseurs 
 agree that Constable was wise to abandon such subjects. 
 Not the least severe of his critics was an uncle, David 
 Watts, who, singularly enough, calls it fine as a whole, 
 but gives twenty-five reasons to prove it bad ! This 
 picture of Christ still hangs under the “ large, luminous 
 window,” which, as Watts thought, greatly prejudices 
 it ; but it appealed to me more forcibly than I expected. 
 I think, with Mr. Brock-Arnold, that the general effect 
 is pleasing; but do not quite appreciate his remark that 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 90 
 
 the execution is “ very slight.” Slight it undoubtedly 
 is, but the question is one of degree, and Constable was 
 probably anxious not to labour such a subject unduly. 
 The picture had suffered much from damp ; but was 
 restored in 1880, and now bears few traces of deteriora- 
 tion. Above, figured in stained glass on the window, 
 are the Stoning of Stephen, the Infant Christ in the 
 Manger, the Bearing of the Cross, the Descent from the 
 Cross, and the Ascension. 
 
 In the chancel, a tablet perpetuates the memory of 
 the Rev. William Jones, A.M. Jones was a divine whose 
 acquaintance was deemed an honour. He was a staunch 
 Trinitarian and High Churchman, who had been Rector 
 of Paston in Northamptonshire. He became Perpetual 
 Curate of Nayland in 1 777, and gathered around him 
 a body of sympathisers who had much influence as High 
 Churchmen after his death. He was also, for a time, 
 Chaplain to Horne, Bishop of Norwich, whose life he 
 wrote, and whose collected writings he published in 1795. 
 Jones was himself a versatile author. He wrote on 
 the Hutchinsonian theology, on the “ Scholar Armed,” 
 on Natural Philosophy, and a Tractate on the Catholic 
 Doctrine of the Trinity, which Newman read with profit, 
 as he tells us in his “Apologia.” Jones died in 1800 ; his 
 works, in twelve volumes, were published the following 
 year, with a Life by Steevens, and have frequently been 
 reprinted. He is remembered, too, as the instigator 
 of the British Critic , which first appeared in 1793, under 
 the editorship of Archdeacon Nares and another. The 
 British Critic was the spokesman of the High Anglicans ; 
 it appeared regularly until 1843. In the Fairchild 
 Discourse, in 1784, Jones uttered some wise words, which 
 
BOXTED AND NAYLAND 
 
 9 1 
 
 may fittingly close this chapter : “ The world cannot 
 show us a more exalted character than that of a truly 
 religious philosopher, who delights to turn all things 
 to the glory of God ; who, in the objects of his sight, 
 derives improvement to his mind ; and, in the glass of 
 things temporal, sees the image of things spiritual.” 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 BURES ST. MARY 
 
 To saunter from Nayland towards Bures St. Mary is to 
 see the face of a quiet, pastoral country — so quiet that 
 you may probably meet no man until you reach the 
 Flemish cottage, at the corner of the lane that leads to 
 Wiston Church. In August, the hedges are bright with 
 yellow toad-flax ; red campions look bravely from the 
 bank, as they do in so many English counties ; the 
 common mallow, sometimes a ruddy purple, sometimes 
 a nearly pure dark blue, strews the roadside with its 
 scattered companies. I started from Nayland early in 
 the afternoon, after some hindrance from yet another 
 gossiper, a man who knew almost everybody for miles 
 around, as I guessed from the tenor of his discourse. 
 Nor did we part until he had accompanied me some 
 distance on my way ; for he was anxious lest I should 
 miss my road to the old Flemish cottage. 
 
 Th ese Flemish cottages are a feature of interest in 
 East Anglia. Heavily thatched, or, as at Dedham, roofed 
 with thick tiles, and of massive timbers that might have 
 served for a man-of-war, they are of great strength, 
 or they would not have weathered so many storms. 
 Inside, the beams sometimes bear curious carving ; 
 without, the walls are often faced with plaster or stucco, 
 on which is embossed some design typical of the calling 
 
BURES ST. MARY 
 
 93 
 
 of their long-forgotten inmates, or some mark of more 
 august significance, such as a mitre or crown. Like the 
 Dutch cottages still standing on Canvey Island, not so 
 many miles away, these old homes of the Fleming in 
 Suffolk have evoked much interest, and in many neigh- 
 bourhoods you may hear circumstantial stories touching 
 their former inhabitants, who are usually credited with 
 having built or at least adorned them with their own 
 hands. Those stories must be received with caution. 
 Broadly speaking, one explanation is usually offered. 
 The cottages were the homes of Flemish refugees, most 
 of whom were weavers, and all of whom had fled from 
 their own country to avoid religious persecution. All 
 this is in part true, but the topic is too interesting for 
 such summary dismissal. 
 
 The Flemish immigrant may be traced, in the pages 
 of East Anglian history, at very early periods. We learn 
 of him in Corporation Records and Subsidy Rolls. In 
 the days of Richard III., to go no farther back, more than 
 three hundred aliens, mostly Flemings, were known 
 to the tax-gatherer in Suffolk ; but it appears that few 
 such were in the county a century earlier. At no period 
 was there a large proportion of weavers amongst them. 
 They followed many trades ; they brewed beer, they 
 carved in wood, they made bricks — in particular, they 
 made a broadly fashioned shoe which gradually dis- 
 placed those longer ones so familiar to us in old illustra- 
 tions. But, although so frequently spoken of collectively 
 as weavers, we know, on the contrary, that the weaver, 
 often enough an alien, was comparatively seldom a 
 Fleming. Those industrious makers of East Anglian 
 cloth, so frequently mentioned in local hand-books, 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 94 
 
 came mostly from other lands than Flanders. One 
 record of a Suffolk clothmaker tells us that he employed 
 twelve aliens, all from Italy ; in Ipswich, in 1485, there 
 were seventy-seven Flemings, twenty-five of whom 
 followed the brewing industry alone ; in short, it is 
 more correct to speak of the Fleming as a shoemaker or 
 a brewer than as a weaver. At an earlier period, there 
 were only five Flemish weavers in the whole county. 
 That many alien weavers lived and worked in Suffolk 
 is well known ; but the “ weaver’s cottage ” has often 
 no claim to be regarded as the old home of a Flemish 
 refugee.* 
 
 Of the Suffolk weaver, however, we get a reliable 
 glimpse during the reign of Henry VIII. Then, as now, 
 the weaver had to contend with the competition of 
 “ the wretched foreigner,” amongst whom he probably 
 classed his own relatives whom he had wisely or unwisely 
 deserted. A time came when political unrest gave rise 
 to stagnation in trade, and merchants in London and 
 other centres were charged with an almost criminal 
 abstention from purchase. The weavers of southern 
 Suffolk made common cause with men of other crafts, 
 and of the gathering of four thousand such sufferers, 
 from many towns and villages, we read in the pages of 
 Hall — a serviceable chronicler, who wrote of things seen 
 and heard in his own day. The men were met by states- 
 men anxious to pacify rather than to punish. The Duke 
 of Norfolk, in particular, was friendly towards them ; 
 and Wolsey went so far as to soundly rate the London 
 merchants for their growing neglect of the weavers’ 
 
 * Vide , e.g., Transactions of the Royal Historical Society , New Series, 
 vol. xvi. 
 
BURES ST. MARY 
 
 95 
 
 wares. He urged that the weaver brought his wares 
 to market at great cost ; he was willing to sell, and the 
 merchant should be as willing to buy ! “ I tell you,” 
 
 he said, “ that the King straitly commandeth you to buy 
 their cloths as beforetime you have been accustomed 
 to do, upon pain of his high displeasure.” Wolsey, 
 indeed, knew more than he wished concerning the true 
 causes of poverty in Suffolk. He had sought means 
 whereby he might replenish the King’s exhausted coffers ; 
 extra taxes were devised ; but the mutterings of dis- 
 content were followed by open rioting, and the scheme 
 had to be abandoned. The incident is well summarised 
 in the late Bishop Creighton’s “ Cardinal Wolsey.” 
 
 “ This, all this, was in the olden time, long ago.” So 
 long ago that only they who browse among old books 
 ever think of those troublous days, and the weaver of 
 four centuries back, whether Flemish or East Anglian, 
 would be forgotten in the very village where he once 
 laboured were it not for these cottages of quaint structure, 
 so tenaciously regarded as monuments of his handiwork. 
 The mere framework of these cottages is not always 
 attributed to the weaver’s industry ; but the carved 
 panelling so often seen on the walls, and other decora- 
 tions, internal and external, are pointed to as his. What 
 stories some of these old homes could tell ! What sad- 
 ness and joy have they not witnessed — what tender 
 wooing and tearful parting, what scenes of childish play, 
 what daily totterings of age ! To-day, they are mostly 
 picturesque ; half-hidden in village by-ways ; em- 
 bowered among trees ; standing alone beside the stream 
 or in the neighbourhood of quiet lanes ; or, it may be, 
 huddled together in a quadrangle, as at Dedham, or in 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 96 
 
 narrow courtways, as in some of the larger towns in 
 Suffolk. I could take the reader to “ Flemish cottages ” 
 in each of the situations mentioned ; perhaps that near 
 Nayland is as typical a specimen as any. Of large size, 
 its timbers are wonderfully preserved, and the carved 
 panelling on its walls is appreciated by its present inmate, 
 as I was assured by an old man who eyed me furtively 
 as I scribbled under the shadow of an adjacent tree. 
 
 That tree afforded a welcome respite from the heat. 
 Seldom have I been abroad on a more sultry afternoon. 
 Was it wholly my fancy, or did the blue butterflies 
 frolic less nimbly than usual over the wild parsleys ? 
 So quiet was it that I felt like one wandering in the land 
 of the lotus eaters, a land where “ all things always seem 
 the same.” After leaving the Flemish cottage, I strayed 
 from the Bures road, coming at length to the little church 
 at Wiston, close beside the Stour. Dating from Norman 
 days, and still retaining proofs of its antiquity, it is now 
 largely modern. The south porch is recent ; and a bell- 
 cote is the only substitute for a tower ; the headstones 
 in the graveyard bear testimony to the singular piety 
 of bygone generations at Wiston. There is little to note 
 in the immediate vicinity of the church ; so I presently 
 retraced my steps, coming at length to The Fox, on a hill- 
 side overlooking the river and the lowland country south- 
 east of Bures. My way thence led me near Smallbridge 
 Hall, one of those stately homes of England which often 
 gather around them such interesting associations, and 
 which, however modernised externally, by additional 
 wing or tower, are yet substantially the same home that 
 sheltered generations of English men and women through 
 days more turbulent than ours. The parish church ? 
 
BURES ST. MARY 
 
 97 
 
 the old inn, the Hall ; it is here that history is writ large ; 
 the modern chronicler, if he neglected these, would often 
 have little enough to record. 
 
 Queen Elizabeth, according to topographical chroni- 
 clers, must have slept in an astonishing number of houses. 
 She travelled frequently from place to place, especially 
 within a hundred miles of London, and undoubtedly 
 visited many of the larger residences between Hatfield 
 and Norwich. Such a residence was Smallbridge Hall, 
 where Elizabeth was certainly entertained both in 1561 
 and 1579. On the former occasion, as we learn from a 
 Cottonian MS. in the British Museum, she stayed at 
 Smallbridge for two days, and the expenses of her enter- 
 tainment were on a par with those incurred at Kenil- 
 worth, when she visited the Earl of Leicester. For the 
 MS. records that the sum spent on that occasion was 
 nearly, in present-day value, £ 2500 . The Hall, modified 
 from time to time, is now a farm-house ; but it still 
 retains Elizabethan features. It was long the home of 
 the Waldegraves, whom we can trace, at a very early 
 period, at Walgrave in Northamptonshire. Many years 
 ago the family passed from Suffolk into Essex, leaving 
 monuments to their memory in the church of St. Mary 
 at Bures, near their old home. 
 
 To trace a Waldegrave of great repute is to look back 
 to a very distant period in our island story. A Richard 
 Waldegrave, who lived and died at Smallbridge, was a 
 Knight of the Shire in a Parliament which earned 
 a somewhat unpleasant notoriety, for it deprived 
 the villeins of many respites and privileges which, to 
 further peace in the realm, had been granted to them 
 when Wat Tyler and his followers had so loudly 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 98 
 
 voiced their grievances. Sir Richard was elected Speaker 
 of the House, and it stands recorded, or is at least affirmed, 
 that he is the only Speaker known to English history 
 who ever requested the King to relieve him from his 
 office — a request which was not granted. 
 
 Sir Richard Waldegrave died on May 2, 1402, and was 
 buried on the north side of the church at Bures. I found 
 the church locked, so could not seek his tomb, but as I 
 peered through a window I saw a monument to the 
 memory of another Waldegrave, with an inscription 
 so curious that I copied the whole : 
 
 HERE LIETHE BURIEDE SIR WILLIAM WALDEGRAVE KNIGHT 
 AND DAME ELIZABETH HIS WIFE WHO LIVED TOGETHER IN 
 GODLYE MARRIAGE 21 YEARE AND HAD ISWE 6 SONNES AND 
 4 DAUGHTERS THE SAID ELIZABETHE DEPARTED THIS LIFE 
 THE TENTH DAYE OF MAYE IN THE YEARE OF OUR LORDE 
 GOD I58I AND THE SAIDE SIR WILLIAM DECEASED THE FIRST 
 DAIE OF AUGUST IN THE YEARE OF OURE LORD GOD 1613. 
 
 I learned, however, that several brasses and inscriptions 
 have been destroyed, so valuable records of local worthies 
 have probably perished. The inscription which I copied 
 is on the south of the chancel, in the Chantry Chapel, 
 founded by the Waldegraves themselves, where masses 
 were said for the repose of their departed. On the side 
 of the altar-tomb facing the chancel, a scene, familiar 
 to all who visit old churches, is depicted. For there are 
 Sir William and Dame Elizabeth, kneeling as in prayer • 
 with their six “ sonnes ” and four daughters close by. 
 
 At Bures, the ancestors of John Constable first settled 
 as farmers in Suffolk. We find, I believe, no trace of 
 them here until we meet with the name of Golding 
 Abram Constable, a son of Sir Marmaduke Constable 
 
BURES ST. MARY 
 
 99 
 
 of Everingham. A daughter of this Golding married 
 her cousin John, likewise a resident at Bures ; she became 
 the mother of another Golding Constable, who by-and- 
 by removed to East Bergholt, married Ann Watts, and 
 was an excellent father to a greater son. A copy of an 
 inscription in Bures Church was sent to Constable’s 
 son, John Charles, in 1839 ; this, however, as Lord 
 Windsor points out, is somewhat puzzling. For the in- 
 scription memorialises a Hugh Constable of Bures, who 
 died in 1713, aged forty-eight, and Anne his wife, who 
 died in 1739 ; it also gives the names of their children, 
 but the name of Golding does not appear. There 
 seems no doubt, however, that Golding Abram was 
 great-grandfather to John the artist, and that his ancestors 
 were Lords of Flamborough in the days of Richard I. 
 
 The church at Bures stands in the centre of the village, 
 at the parting of the ways, and close to the bridge across 
 the Stour. The massive tower, battlemented and 
 pinnacled, is almost covered with ivy on its southern 
 side ; the churchyard adjoins the vicarage grounds. 
 Much of the structure is seven centuries old ; and to 
 linger under its shadow is to find oneself wondering what 
 manner of folk came hither to pray so long ago. But, 
 as a matter of fact, the materials for a history of Bures 
 are very meagre, and even those meagre materials are 
 largely based on stories associated with monumental 
 relics in the church. The arched and canopied recess, 
 on the north side of the tower exterior, has the figure 
 of a fish above it, and is thought to be the founder’s 
 tomb. According to an entry in a register, the tower 
 was once surmounted by a spire or fleche ; this, in 1733, 
 was destroyed by lightning, and five bells (there were 
 
100 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 and are six in all) were melted in the fervent heat. 
 Perhaps the most curious relic of the past is the effigy, 
 in chestnut-wood, of a knight with two angels at his 
 head, and a lion sejant at his feet. The story runs that 
 this worthy was a Cornard ; that he sold Corn Hall for 
 fourpence during the reign of Henry III., and was 
 roundly cursed by the monks (? of Bury) for his share in 
 the transaction. The sequel affords yet another instance 
 of the tendency of similar legends to crop up in different 
 places. Poor Cornard was threatened with curses 
 whether buried in the church or in the churchyard, so 
 elected to lie in the wall itself, thus being neither inside 
 nor outside of the sanctuary ! Almost the exact counter- 
 part of this legend is told at Brent Pelham in Hertford- 
 shire, where one Piers Shonkes, a famous slayer of serpents, 
 was buried in an altar-tomb in the church wall, thereby 
 avoiding the jurisdiction of Satan, as he firmly believed. * 
 
 According to Samuel Lewis — whose “ Topographical 
 Dictionary of England ” it is difficult to praise too highly 
 — the village of Bures comprised, early in the nineteenth 
 century, some thirteen hundred souls. That it once 
 shared in the activities of the weaving industries is prob- 
 able enough ; probably, too, it shared the depression 
 in trade so keenly felt, two centuries back, in many towns 
 and villages of Suffolk. At that time, the neighbouring 
 town of Sudbury was said to be remarkable for one reason 
 only : it was “ very populous and very poor.” The 
 villages naturally shared in the prosperity or poverty 
 of the nearest towns, to which they carried their goods 
 for sale ; and when we read that the number of poor in 
 
 * Vide the writer’s “ Highways and Byways in Hertfordshire,” 
 chap. xiv. 
 
BURES ST. MARY 
 
 IOI 
 
 Sudbury was “ almost ready to eat up the rich,” we must 
 conclude that this destitution was also felt at Bures and 
 elsewhere. To-day, the chief signs of trade with the 
 outer world are the piles of bark by the roadside, and the 
 large tannery near the church, where many hands are 
 kept busy. In the adjoining suburb, called Bures 
 Hamlet, on the Essex side of the river, malt and bricks 
 are made ; but I listened to complaints of declining trade, 
 and here, as elsewhere, the palmy days are always past. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE CHAPEL IN THE CORN 
 
 I had some pleasant talk with a barber in Bures. He 
 carried with him that perpetual recommendation, a 
 cheerful countenance, and, whilst interested in matters 
 parochial, he had the sense to keep in touch with the 
 outer world. This, in the main, he contrived to do by 
 an assiduous study of the papers, both political and 
 comic, after the manner of all orthodox barbers ; but 
 also, as I surmised, by much judicious questioning of 
 clients. The latter, at least, is a practice to be com- 
 mended. “ He that questioneth much,” says Bacon, 
 “ shall learn much, and content much.” In this case I 
 asked the questions, and the barber of Bures was prodigal 
 of replies. Our talk, as was natural enough, turned largely 
 on local antiquities. There was one spot, it seemed, 
 visited by every wise man and woman when they came 
 to Bures, and I was straitly charged to visit it also. What- 
 ever else I missed, or however anxious I might be to reach 
 Sudbury, I must turn aside to see “ the chapel in the 
 corn.” 
 
 So I turned aside ; and after idling awhile in the 
 tannery, where I admired the adroitness with which 
 hand-barrows were wheeled on the very edge of the pits — 
 
 Nor brain did reel, nor foot did slip, 
 
 Nor any hand did falter there — 
 
THE CHAPEL IN THE CORN 
 
 103 
 
 I climbed the hill to the north of Bures, and came 
 presently to a footpath through the cornfields. The 
 spot commanded a noble prospect of the surrounding 
 country ; the wheat harvest, not yet “ safely gathered 
 in,” was in full progress in many fields, and the hum of 
 machinery filled the air. I had strayed half a mile from 
 the high road when I suddenly rounded a corner and 
 found myself in an open space where men were piling 
 straw. An old barn stood near by. I had reached the 
 shrine I sought. This old barn, as a man promptly 
 explained, was the chapel in the corn, usually referred 
 to as “ Chapel Barn.” 
 
 It is a strange structure, somewhat similar to the 
 barn-like chapel of St. Peter’s-on-the-Wall which you 
 may see from the mouth of the Blackwater, or to the 
 Spital Farm at Maldon ; and strange indeed is the story 
 that has gathered around it. That story takes us back 
 to a past which is exceeding dim — so dim that we can 
 see with difficulty, and can but guess at the lineaments 
 of the picture. From the barn itself we can learn little, 
 albeit we readily perceive that long ago it was a small, 
 duly furnished church. The foundations of the walls 
 may still be traced ; the piscina remains in the wall 
 itself, and Early English windows, long since bricked up, 
 show its approximate age. Old timbers are still in the 
 roof ; on the south side I saw the traces of what was once 
 a doorway ; outside, on the north, a large round stone 
 between two windows is thought to be all that remains 
 of a sun-dial. The whole building is now thatched, 
 and has evidently been enlarged from time to time ; 
 but so massive is this old structure that it is surely 
 destined to retain traces of its once sacred character 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 104 
 
 even in a century yet to dawn. This church, so strangely 
 altered that the chaffcutter sounds where priests once 
 chanted, was built, as tradition states, by Abbot Samson 
 of Bury St. Edmunds, probably near the end of the 
 twelfth century. 
 
 “ Abbot Samson,” wrote Carlyle, “ built many useful, 
 many pious edifices ; human dwellings, churches, church- 
 steeples, barns — all fallen now and vanished, but useful 
 while they stood.” I do not know whether Carlyle 
 ever visited this ruin on the hillside near Bures ; but if 
 he did so I can, I think, guess his thoughts as he lingered 
 on the spot. For, as he would have known, this relic — 
 half barn, half church, so typical of that meeting of 
 Past and Present which he wrote of with such burning 
 eloquence — is the supplanter of a far older structure, 
 an ancient church of wood, built, as we are asked to 
 believe, on the spot where Edmund, afterwards known 
 as Edmund the Martyr, received the crown from the 
 East Angles, on December 25, in the year 855. He was 
 then but a youth, having been born between fourteen 
 and fifteen years before. 
 
 One of the oldest authorities for this statement is the 
 chronicle of Gaufridus de Fontibus, who, however, 
 lived long after the events which he narrates. Those 
 events did not happen until Bede — an invaluable his- 
 torian when not concerned with the miraculous — had 
 been dead more than a century, so we are left to conjec- 
 ture where we would fain know. Much that has been 
 written of Edmund is mythical. I am here only con- 
 cerned with the tradition that he was crowned on the 
 site of Chapel Barn. The tradition is the more perplex- 
 ing because, as was pointed out a few years ago by the 
 
THE CHAPEL IN THE CORN 
 
 105 
 
 Vicar of Bures, “ there is absolutely no reference to this 
 chapel in any of the parish papers, so it is probable that 
 the building had no connection with the village near 
 which it stands.” Moreover, a hill near by bears the 
 name of St. Edmund’s ; but it retains no traces of any 
 commemorative ruins, and Mr. Hamlet Watling, an 
 antiquarian whose opinion carries weight, believes the 
 hill was named in error. 
 
 The chronicle of Gaufridus de Fontibus dates from 
 early in the twelfth century. In that chronicle we 
 read that Edmund was crowned at Burum by the 
 prelate Humbert; the description given of the spot is 
 precise, and the oft-repeated assertion that Edmund 
 was crowned at Burne in Lincolnshire seems far less 
 plausible. For Gaufridus, as though anxious to prevent 
 any mistake, records that Burum was a village in Suffolk, 
 that it was situate on the river Stour, at the “ known 
 bound between East-sex and Suffolk.” That Edmund 
 was crowned on Christmas Day 855, by Humbert, then 
 Bishop of Elmham, is also stated by Asser. So we have 
 documentary evidence, of great antiquity, to support 
 the assertion that Edmund was crowned at Bures, which 
 is more than we can claim on behalf of many stories 
 very generally believed. But the older chroniclers and 
 historians were wont to dispense with the word “ near,” 
 or its equivalent, usually naming a spot from an adjacent 
 town or village, and Gaufridus, even if he knew the exact 
 place where the King was crowned, would naturally 
 write of it as Burum , perhaps familiar to him as a mere 
 huddle of herdsmen’s huts by the riverside. East 
 Anglians hardly need reminding how many incidents, 
 stated to have occurred at Norwich, or Ipswich, or Bury 
 
106 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 St. Edmunds, in reality took place some miles from those 
 centres. 
 
 An old man passed in and out of the barn as I examined 
 its walls. He had lived close by for many years, he 
 could hardly say just how many ! Ever since he could 
 remember travellers had turned aside to visit Chapel 
 Barn ; he supposed most of them were idle, rich folk 
 with plenty of time to spare, or why did they waste 
 hours looking at an old place like this ! Nothing in it 
 was of any use. He couldn’t make things out at all. 
 Why was it that people who came from great places far 
 away — places like London, now, or Birmingham — 
 always spent most time in looking at buildings that were 
 no good for anything — buildings partly rotted away or 
 fallen down, years before they were born ! He had 
 heard that the monks — rare men for their feed, weren’t 
 they, sir ? — used to say masses in Chapel Barn long before 
 his grandfather was born, so it might perhaps be when 
 the Romans were over here, as he had heard tell ! “ Why, 
 ’ere’s the door what they used to come in at, and ’ere’s 
 one of the windows what they used to look out at, to see 
 if any robbers were about in the fields, for the robbers 
 used to take their wine whenever they could.” He 
 supposed, from all he heard, and from picture-books 
 he had seen, that the monks, for the most part, had a 
 good time of it ; but why did they go about dressed like 
 women ? And did they never do any work at all, or was 
 it true, as he had been told, that they did all the work 
 in the houses where they lived, and did a lot of gardening 
 as well ? Such questions have been asked by other and 
 far more learned men, and have elicited conflicting 
 replies. 
 
THE CHAPEL IN THE CORN 
 
 107 
 
 He pottered about feebly as he spoke ; his amazement 
 at the curiosity of visitors was often repeated, and was 
 obviously genuine. The ruin in which he worked, and 
 which he looked upon daily with indifference, was to him 
 a relic of ancient days. He knew nothing of any earlier 
 building on the same spot. In this, indeed, he was even 
 as other men ; for nothing is known concerning the church 
 first erected here. We can only surmise that it was built 
 soon after the death of Edmund, when veneration for 
 his memory was spreading everywhere in East Anglia. 
 The men of Suffolk have always claimed that he was 
 slain at Hoxne, beside the river Waveney, and close to 
 Eye, where you may still see the cross of stone that marks 
 the site of St. Edmund’s Oak, which fell in 1848. To 
 that oak, according to tradition, the King was bound by 
 his Danish captors ; there he was mercilessly scourged ; 
 there arrows were shot into his extremities ; and there, 
 when the torturers wearied of their play, an arrow was 
 driven through his heart. Persons had doubted the 
 story, foolish unbelievers as they were, but some of them 
 lived to blush for their unbelief. For when that old 
 oak fell it was carefully examined ; plainly discernible 
 were the evidences of a thousand years of growth, and 
 lo ! some five feet from the ground, the point of an arrow 
 was embedded in the trunk.* The many stories regard- 
 ing the body of the King — how it was carried to the little 
 timber chapel hard by, and finally rested at Beodric's- 
 zvortb , afterwards called Bury St. Edmund’s — hardly 
 concern us here. The “ timber chapel ” near Hoxne 
 and the one erected on the “ royal hill ” at Bures were 
 
 * This statement, quoted in Mr. Dutt’s “ Suffolk,” was published by 
 the Bury Post on October 11, 1848. 
 
io8 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 probably enough similar to that so wonderfully preserved 
 at Greenstead, close to Ongar in Essex, where trunks, 
 presumably of oak, stand side by side and form the walls 
 of the nave — they are thought to have stood thus for 
 eleven hundred years, and to be an entirely unique 
 'monument of their kind. To this church the body of 
 Edmund is said to have once been temporarily removed. 
 
 In the parish papers of Bures, as I have said, there 
 is no allusion to Chapel Barn. We could wish that some 
 monkish chronicler had busied himself, in a neighbouring 
 scriptorium, with the annals of Bures. Such tasks must 
 often have seemed wearisome, and profitless to boot ; 
 but we cherish those old chronicles now, and wish them 
 far more numerous. It is said, I know, that we write 
 too much ; that we record where we should act. But 
 is not the man of letters also a man of action ? Is not 
 the act of writing as serviceable as the act of slaying — 
 or the compiling of contemporary records as honourable 
 a vocation as the seizing of another man’s territory ? 
 Some of us, at least, regret the meagreness of local 
 records. The annals of village life hardly exist. England 
 is dotted from east to west, and from north to south, 
 with villages concerning which we know almost nothing — 
 so thankless a task is it to keep a diary ; to write down, 
 day after day, a narrative of events apparently trivial, 
 but perhaps pregnant with meaning in the light of the 
 future. We have a Master of the Rolls and a Public 
 Record Office ; I should like to think it possible to 
 support a Public Chronicler in every parish, who should 
 set down, for the use of posterity, a narrative of things 
 seen and done. Such a Public Chronicle should be 
 more circumstantial than any existing Parish Register ; 
 
The Cornfield, 
 

 
 
 
THE CHAPEL IN THE CORN 
 
 109 
 
 those Registers are often excellent, so far as they go ; 
 but their keeper is a man of many duties, and we may 
 wonder they are ever kept at all. Many a village trades- 
 man is sufficiently educated to fill such an office ; a small 
 portion of each day would suffice for the task — a task 
 which he would gladly perform for ^50 a year. The 
 records of a year would lie in one large volume ; a 
 hundred such volumes — the chronicles of a century — 
 would fill but a few shelves in the vestry of the Parish 
 Church, or the office of the County Police. Thus 
 might each village boast its own Matthew Paris, who did 
 good service in the Benedictine Monastery at St. Albans, 
 or its Jocelin of Brakelond, “ a certain old St. Edmunds- 
 bury Monk and Boswell, now seven centuries old.” 
 Seven centuries have passed since this chapel was 
 consecrated, doubtless with much ceremony ; set apart 
 for the service of God, and the Virgin, and saints, and the 
 whole hierarchy of Heaven as venerated by mediaeval 
 ecclesiasticism. Here would come monks from Bury 
 St. Edmunds, or it may be from Sudbury, to assist or 
 watch such ceremonial as many would now deem mere 
 monkish mummery. As a cell, perhaps, to that monastery, 
 once so populous, on the eastern slope of Bury St. 
 Edmunds, this chapel was naturally the scene of Romish 
 practices ; but we are apt to forget that almost the 
 same might be said of every ancient church in England. 
 As I listened to the chatter of that old man — now 
 lingering in the gloom of the barn, now in the bright 
 sunshine without — I asked myself why the theology 
 and ritual of Rome should have rooted in our land so 
 deeply that they still grow with surprising vigour. 
 Divines may insist on the “ historic continuity ” of the 
 
IIO 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 Church of England ; but to do so is largely* to deny our 
 Protestantism. The authority of the Pope has been 
 resisted in every reign. The bishops resisted Augustine ; 
 a Northumbrian Witan defied Pope Agatho I., and 
 burned his letters ; Dunstan defied John XII. in the 
 matter of Edwy’s marriage ; William the Conqueror 
 refused homage to Alexander II. ; John waged a long 
 warfare with Innocent III., and had only himself to 
 thank for his ultimate humiliation in regard to Langton ; 
 Edward III. used very defiant language in his letter to 
 Clement VI. touching certain moneys demanded by that 
 Pontiff. But to deny the Pope’s authority was not to 
 repudiate the beliefs and practices of his Church, and 
 the prayers that ascended daily from this chapel in the 
 fields differed little from those offered in other sanc- 
 tuaries, unconnected with any neighbouring monastery, 
 but under the direct supervision of an English bishop. 
 “ The Church of England,” wrote Freeman, “ is the 
 daughter of the Church of Rome.” If any man ques- 
 tions this, let him pore upon our old chroniclers ; let him 
 follow our ecclesiastical history from Bede to Cranmer ; 
 above all, let him visit those old, ruinous churches so 
 thickly scattered over England, and ask whether their 
 relics are relics of Romanism, or of a simpler and more 
 Scriptural religion. Surely the question can receive 
 but one reply, for it is concerned with facts. Far 
 different, far more difficult to answer, is the question 
 asked above. Let us vary the words. Let us ask, Why 
 was our belief like unto the belief of Rome — say for 
 nine centuries, from Augustine to Pole ? Chapel Barn, 
 at least, is “ eloquent of still replies.” 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 SUDBURY 
 
 To approach Sudbury by train, either from Bures or 
 from Clare, is to thread a diversified pastoral country — 
 “ the general grassy face of Suffolk,” to quote the words 
 of Carlyle. Journeying thus, you perceive the broad 
 lineaments of the land more readily than during a slower 
 progress. You see so much in fifteen minutes, nor should 
 the advantages of height be ignored. On miles of em- 
 bankment, or when crossing bridges or viaducts, you hold 
 a superior position from which to survey the prospect ; 
 and even where the railroad traverses a valley you are 
 higher from the roadway than you would otherwise be. 
 Of all ways of seeing a landscape, there are “ none more 
 vivid, in spite of canting dilettantes, than from a railway 
 train.” So wrote Stevenson in his essay on “ Walking 
 Tours,” and he, I take it, knew more of these matters 
 than most of us. 
 
 I have often wondered at the indifference of travellers 
 to the scenes through which they pass. From Padding- 
 ton to Pembrokeshire, from Euston to Cheshire, from. 
 Waterloo to the Isle of Wight, I have been in the com- 
 pany of those who never before journeyed in the same 
 direction, and yet, through all those miles of English or 
 Welsh scenery — in places beautiful, and almost every- 
 where full of interesting associations — my companions 
 
1 1 2 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 have gossiped incessantly on trivialities, at times, perhaps, 
 glancing impatiently through the window, as if to 
 learn how soon the journey would end. I fancy no 
 journey ends soon enough for some of the sons and 
 daughters of men. Surely their highest ambition is to 
 outstrip Puck, who, when asked to bring love-in-idleness 
 to Oberon, promised to 
 
 . . . put a girdle round about the earth 
 
 In forty minutes. 
 
 It may be urged, perhaps, that to stare for hours upon 
 the passing country is the pastime of a child ; that some 
 of us were born wondering, and have wondered ever 
 since. I am not careful to answer in this matter. Yet 
 I would maintain, as I approach Sudbury, that to nourish 
 an interest in all things is to preserve a large measure of 
 happiness, and often enough we alone are to blame 
 when that halo of romance, which surrounds so much 
 in youth, fades prematurely into “ the light of common 
 day.” A mother and young son — the Benjamin of her 
 family, as I gathered — were on the platform at Bures, 
 and we shared a compartment during the short run to 
 Sudbury. Throughout the journey that boy stood at 
 the window, his nose pressed against the pane. Every 
 passing object was of interest, and as the train neared 
 Sudbury his delight was unbounded, for he had never 
 yet walked its streets. In fact, the little traveller was 
 on his longest journey ; he was born in Essex, and to-day, 
 crossing the Suffolk border for the first time, he was 
 entering an unknown land. By-and-by, he may deem 
 his first visit to a town an event of no importance ; I 
 do not know that he will therefore be a wiser or happier 
 person. 
 
SUDBURY 
 
 ”3 
 
 Sudbury is so old, so interesting a town, that an 
 adequate description of it would fill a large volume. 
 Fuller put the truth pithily, as he usually did, when he 
 wrote that it was “ as great as most, and as ancient as 
 any town in Suffolk.” There appears to be no doubt 
 that it was formerly an important commercial centre ; 
 especially in the days when its inhabitants learned the 
 art of weaving from the Flemings, introduced here by 
 Edward III. The importance of Bury St. Edmund’s 
 may largely be attributed to its monastery ; but Sudbury 
 was most frequently associated with Norwich in the 
 minds of men of olden times, when the town was called 
 Southburgh, in distinction from Norwich, i.e . 9 the North- 
 burgh. For confirmation of this we may turn to Camden, 
 who tells us that the South Burgh was thought to have 
 once been the chief town of its county. Interesting 
 glimpses of its history are scattered here and there in 
 contemporary records. Before William I. so generously 
 rewarded his friends and helpers with gifts of English 
 manors, the property belonged to Earl Morcar ; but he 
 was forced to relinquish his rights, and Sudbury was 
 thenceforth for many years owned by the De Clares, 
 who left their name and memory in the small town some 
 nine miles to the north-west, beside the Stour. But 
 the records of Domesday Book are not the oldest con- 
 cerned with Sudbury. The place is mentioned in the 
 “ Saxon Chronicle,” and money is said to have been coined 
 here in the days of Ethelred II. Again the meagreness 
 of records has to be deplored. Baldwin of Shimperling, 
 who founded here a Dominican Priory during the reign 
 of Henry III., left little save his name behind him ; 
 the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, who had once a 
 
 H 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 IX 4 
 
 hospital beside the Stour, are but a memory ; the 
 Benedictine monks, who built here one of many cells to 
 Westminster Abbey, left no story of their doings for the 
 edification of posterity. Their priory stood close to the 
 road to Bury ; most of it was destroyed nearly one 
 hundred and fifty years ago, but you may still see what 
 remains of the chapel where they were wont to pray. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when I reached the town. 
 My first impression, as I loitered on Market Hill, was 
 that the townsmen had, with uncommon diligence, 
 striven to modernise their surroundings. Shops which 
 would have made an earlier generation stare and gasp 
 are plentiful, and the wares exposed for sale would not 
 disgrace the most fashionable neighbourhood elsewhere. 
 In one such shop I bought a view of Market Hill, showing 
 its appearance one hundred years ago, and the contrast 
 between that picture and the present aspect of the spot 
 is very striking. Only one object appears practically 
 unaltered — the tower of St. Peter’s Church. It is 
 evidently market day in the old picture. There is an 
 amazing concourse of persons, dressed after the fashions 
 of their age, so quaint to twentieth-century eyes. In 
 the foreground, Hodge, wearing a cow-gown and carrying 
 a drover’s stick, is complacently regarding a bullock that 
 reclines in the middle of the road ; another bullock and 
 several sheep are close to three soldiers, very imposing in 
 scarlet coats with epaulettes, and a sort of primordial 
 busby on their heads. Rustics are gossiping in groups ; 
 with hands in pockets or arms a-kimbo, — all, apparently, 
 well fed and contented. The picture shows what Sud- 
 bury was like ere, as Lewis mentions, it was paved and 
 lighted in 1825, shortly before the erection of the Town 
 
SUDBURY 
 
 US 
 
 Hall. During many previous years it had felt the effects 
 of the declining trade in woollens ; the houses in the 
 principal thoroughfares were largely owned by “ decayed 
 manufacturers,” and their condition often revealed the 
 owner’s poverty. The streets, as a contemporary record 
 tells us, were very dirty — which cannot be said of its 
 chief thoroughfares to-day. 
 
 Sudbury was between two periods of prosperity when, 
 in 1722, it was visited by Defoe. Even then its trade 
 was considerable : for Defoe found here “ a great manu- 
 facture of says and perpetuanas.” The trade of Sudbury 
 does not seem to have brought commensurate prosperity 
 to its population as a whole ; for whilst the woollen and 
 other industries gave employment to large numbers, 
 the proportion of extremely poor persons was very great. 
 This individual poverty had doubtless been felt more or 
 less acutely since Edward III. had supposed that by 
 prohibiting the sale of English wool to merchants abroad 
 he could foster a great home industry. Mr. James 
 Paton has shown how disastrous that policy proved. 
 Edward wished us to take an advantage with both hands. 
 He brought fullers and weavers from Flanders, and 
 having secured expert workers he desired the raw material 
 produced in England to be wholly at their disposal. 
 Wise after the event, we know that an inevitable result 
 followed. The freedom of trade was thereby hampered ; 
 much “ running ” of smuggled wool followed, and the 
 trade declined. Under Elizabeth the English producer 
 exported what wool he pleased ; but in 1660 this liberty 
 was once more denied him, nor was it again granted 
 until 1825. Defoe was therefore in Sudbury when its 
 manufacturers enjoyed whatever protection Parliament 
 
ii 6 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 could devise ; and the phenomenal poverty of the 
 town was its chief feature. 
 
 Such was the condition of Sudbury when Thomas 
 Gainsborough, whose father himself was in the wool trade, 
 was born in 1727, in what was then the Black Horse Inn. 
 The house still stands in Sepulchre Street, on the right- 
 hand side as you go towards the river, but it has been 
 refronted, and little save massive timbers now remains 
 of the house that sheltered the artist’s infancy. The 
 house bears a simple but sufficient inscription : 
 
 IN THIS HOUSE WAS BORN 
 THOMAS GAINSBOROUGH 
 A I727 D 
 
 A small house, mostly of red brick, with steeply sloping 
 roof of slates : it needed the inscription to associate it 
 with one who knew its corners and crannies so long 
 ago. An old view — copied, like that of Market Hill, on a 
 picture post-card sold locally — bears the words “ Gains- 
 borough’s Birth-place, Sudbury.” Words apart, I will 
 answer for it no man in the town would guess its signifi- 
 cance. There are several houses in the picture, which is 
 a strange medley. Women are standing at open door- 
 ways or sitting on stools in the street ; horses are drink- 
 ing from a low trough of primitive design ; somebody, 
 whether man or woman I know not, is seated on a cart 
 in the very uneven street ; fowls wander in the fore- 
 ground. I fancy there was much artistic licence in the 
 original print ; for an open country with trees, and a 
 mountain or mountain-like cloud in the distance, is 
 shown on the left ; whereas, so far as I can ascertain, 
 the houses in Stour Street (which is a continuation of 
 
SUDBURY 
 
 ii 7 
 
 the same thoroughfare) extended to the river at a very 
 early period. I noticed several old, gabled structures 
 between Gainsborough’s house and the Stour ; one of 
 them, “ Salter’s Hall,” bears the date 1450, thus 
 synchronising with the impeachment of a Duke of Suffolk 
 and the revolt of Jack Cade. The carvings on door- 
 posts and under gables are conspicuous, and are, in fact, 
 the one surviving resemblance to the scene depicted in 
 the old print, where carvings are a noticeable feature. 
 Gainsborough’s house, to-day and then, suggests a reflec- 
 tion. It was surely far easier for an artist to find pictures 
 ready to his hand in the eighteenth century than it is 
 to-day. From that standpoint, if from no other, the 
 neighbourhood of Stour Street has not improved as 
 decades passed. 
 
 We do not know on what day Gainsborough was born ; 
 but it stands recorded that he was baptized on May 14, 
 at the Independent Meeting House near his father’s 
 residence. His father was cunning in fence ; his mother, 
 who loved flowers as only a woman can, could paint 
 them skilfully. She was sister to Humphrey Burroughs, 
 sometime curate at St. Gregory’s, the oldest church in 
 Sudbury. Thomas was her youngest child, and from 
 her, as we may well suppose, he inherited his love of 
 art. It is known that he sketched whilst quite a child ; 
 the neighbourhood, then more thickly wooded, was 
 perennially inspiring to the artist that was to be. He 
 claimed, in after life, that he knew every clump of trees ? 
 almost every tree, for some considerable distance from 
 his home, a claim identical with that of Constable. 
 Many sketches and paintings of his homeland are 
 presumably lost ; but his landscape Near Cornard— 
 
1 1 8 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 a wooded scene, with a pond, and the village in the 
 background — is among others in the National Gallery. 
 Cunningham mentions that Gainsborough once gave 
 some of his early sketches to a lady, who pasted them 
 on her walls, and there left them when she removed. 
 
 I should be charged with ignorance were I to omit all 
 anecdotes of the Gainsboroughs at Sudbury. John 
 Gainsborough was himself a remarkable man. Too 
 .generous to prosper greatly ; too upright to levy the 
 unjust “ toll ” usually exacted from the spinner, he was 
 nevertheless suspected as an occasional evader of the 
 Revenue Customs, and once had recourse to an ingenious 
 expedient when challenged by an officer of small bravery. 
 The officer met him on his way home, driving a cart 
 containing some shrouds, first introduced by him as an 
 article of trade in Sudbury. The officer asked what 
 the cart contained. “ I’ll show you,” said John, and 
 promptly threw a shroud around his own figure in the 
 darkness of night. The officer fled. 
 
 John Gainsborough died in 1748, when Thomas was 
 living at Ipswich “ in a small house at a rent of six pounds 
 a year.” He had, says Cunningham, “ something mys- 
 terious in his history.” Indeed, strange stories were 
 abroad concerning his eccentricities ; he was thought 
 to go about in fear of his life, or to nourish sinister designs 
 on the life of others ; it was long asserted that beneath 
 his clothing he carried deadly weapons. Perhaps his 
 sleek appearance belied the goodness of his heart. He was 
 ostentatiously careful of his hair, and of his white teeth, 
 and was “ a personable man ” — whatever that may mean. 
 His eldest son, long remembered in Sudbury as “ scheming 
 Jack,” was not unreasonably deemed eccentric. He 
 
SUDBURY 
 
 119 
 
 was as fond of models and experiments as Isaac Newton, 
 but lacked that perseverance which turns a pleasing 
 hobby into serviceable knowledge. He attempted to 
 fly ; he constructed curious miniatures in brass and tin ; 
 he tried to adjust the ascertainment of the longtitude — 
 a subject that presently interested Dr. Johnson, whose 
 “ account of an attempt to ascertain the longtitude,” 
 derived from Zachariah Williams, was first printed by 
 Dodsley, in 1755. “ Jack ” Gainsborough might have 
 
 said, with Beaconsfield, that he had attempted many 
 things ; but could certainly not have added that he had 
 usually succeeded in the end. He took up subject after 
 subject, only to lay them aside at length; the models, 
 and fragments of models, found in his house at his death 
 might have formed the nucleus of a museum of mechanics. 
 
 Thomas Gainsborough was in youth more fortunate 
 than many artists. Parents, not unnaturally, look 
 askance at sons who cherish artistic aspirations, seeming to 
 prefer any such profession to that followed, perhaps 
 with great profit, by their family. No impediment 
 was placed in the way of Gainsborough, whose genius 
 was from the first unquestionable. Two stories of his 
 early proficiency are well known, but can hardly be 
 omitted here. Once, anxious to avoid school, he wrote, 
 in facsimile of his father’s handwriting, “ Please give 
 Tom a holiday.” The forgery was so clever that Uncle 
 Burroughs, master at the Grammar School, suspected 
 nothing, and the holiday was granted. It was well 
 for Tom that the school was not ruled by Burroughs 
 father-in-law, the notorious Busby, who would assuredly 
 have scourged him sorely for so gross an imposition. As 
 it turned out, the trick was presently discovered ; but 
 
120 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 when the father heard that Tom sketched during these 
 stolen hours, his anger was mollified, and he deemed his 
 son a genius indeed. On another occasion the boy gave 
 even surer proof of his skill, as a limner of likeness. Sketch- 
 ing in his father’s garden, he presently saw a man’s head 
 rise above the wall, the eyes fixed earnestly on some 
 ripening pears. As it chanced, the head was strongly 
 relieved against a bright background, and Gainsborough 
 sketched it with a few rapid touches of amazing accuracy. 
 So faithful was the unstudied likeness that the man 
 was obviously abashed when, accused of a design to 
 steal pears, he was confronted with his portrait ! The 
 subject was afterwards elaborated, and Tom Peartree's 
 Portrait has had numerous admirers. It was shown at 
 the Grosvenor Gallery in 1885. 
 
 Gainsborough went first to London as student-artist 
 in 1741. His career in London and in Bath does not 
 concern me here ; but I shall revert to him when we 
 reach the neighbourhood of Landguard Fort, so closely 
 associated with his fame. Back in Sudbury in 1745, 
 he painted portraits, and vastly surprised his old friends 
 by the elegance of his attire and his courtly manners. 
 As I rambled from the house where he was born, coming 
 presently to Friar Street, I remembered that here he 
 lived awhile with his beautiful bride, Margaret Burr, 
 who sat to him for her portrait ere they fell in love. 
 Conjecture was long busy with the name of Margaret 
 Burr. A little younger than her husband, who was 
 but nineteen when he married, she was said to be a 
 natural daughter of some prince in exile, or, as others 
 affirmed, of the Duke of Bedford. However that might 
 be — and I gather that even Mr. Cosmo Monkhouse 
 
SUDBURY 
 
 1 21 
 
 cannot settle the point — she proved eminently lovable 
 and loving ; moreover, she had two hundred pounds a 
 year, which sometimes means so much. The story 
 runs that Gainsborough first saw Miss Burr when, as 
 he sat sketching in a Suffolk wood, she intruded upon the 
 scene by accident, and at once arrested his attention by 
 her rare beauty. It is thought that the story has lost 
 nothing in the telling ; if essentially true, the young 
 artist was typical of earth’s more favoured sons, “ sole 
 sitting by the shores of old romance.” 
 
 Continuing my wanderings, I came to the Church of 
 All Saints, in the lower part of the town, surrounded by a 
 small graveyard where lie some relatives of Gainsborough. 
 Its tower, conspicuous afar to travellers approaching 
 from the south or west, is not unlike the tower of St- 
 Gregory’s. The church, originally built about 1150, 
 is now largely Perpendicular, but the arches on either side 
 of the chancel are Early Decorated. Here, as at Bures? 
 lie several members of the Waldegrave family ; here, too, 
 the inscriptions on their tombs are lost, and I doubt 
 whether much is known concerning any one of them. 
 The Waldegraves were evidently a numerous family ; 
 few, however, gained real distinction in any walk of life ; 
 even the “ Dictionary of National Biography ” devotes 
 but few columns to their records. The name, perpetuated 
 in these old churches, is a name only ; and we say of these 
 Waldegraves, as was said of Merovingian Kings : “ They 
 are all gone ; sunk — down, down, with the tumult they 
 made ; and the rolling and the trampling of ever new 
 generations passes over them ; and they hear it not any 
 more for ever.” 
 
 All Saints’ Church contains an interesting octagonal 
 
122 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 pulpit. It dates from the fifteenth century ; its oak 
 is dark with age, but the delicate carving is wonderfully 
 preserved. As regards its condition it might have been 
 wrought by Grinling Gibbons. Its beauties were long 
 hidden. Very many years ago, perhaps during the 
 Restoration, it was covered with rough boarding ; this 
 was thickly coated with paint, and so remained until the 
 restorer unveiled its hidden traceries, and the pulpit 
 stood revealed as though fresh from the hand that 
 fashioned it. Here, too, are massive doors that speak 
 eloquently of their antiquity — doors that might defy 
 the ravages of time till time shall be no more. The 
 church, as I have said, was built about 1150, but there 
 are reasons for supposing that it occupies the site of an 
 earlier structure. For the doorways of stone that lead 
 to the tower stairs rest upon very ancient memorial slabs, 
 so situated that they were certainly not laid down after 
 the erection of the present structure. 
 
 A soft rain, drifting aslant before a westerly breeze, 
 and drawing a fuller fragrance from roses in cottage 
 gardens, fell continuously as I sauntered through quaint 
 back-streets, listening to the rattle of the hand-loom, 
 an unfamiliar sound to many ears. It is familiar enough 
 to folk in Sudbury, as is the peculiar aspect of the rooms 
 in which weavers work. The weaver needs a good light, 
 for obvious reasons ; a large window, perhaps consisting 
 of several frames placed side by side, is inserted both in 
 the back and front wall, and the loom stands in the centre. 
 Through those windows you may hear the canary sing 
 cheerily whilst his master or mistress weaves ; an old 
 Suffolk saying assures us that every weaver has his canary, 
 a golden testimony to the excellence of his taste. A 
 
SUDBURY 
 
 123 
 
 row of weavers’ cottages stands close to Gainsborough’s 
 house ; in fact, despite the depression in trade, these 
 centres of business are still, as a native told me, “ part 
 and parcel of Sudbury.” 
 
 I had long felt an interest in the weaver. As it 
 chanced, I made an acquaintance when in Dedham, 
 which soon ripened into friendship, and my new friend 
 had many weavers in his service. He invited me to visit 
 him in his manufactory at Sudbury. Nothing loth, I 
 found him at an early hour. Together we passed from 
 loom to loom, watching the weaving of silk fabrics of 
 cunning design and most exquisite colour, destined for 
 such upholstery as ladies love. A piece of rich brocaded 
 silk is the outcome of much study, taste and skill ; the 
 treasure-houses of Europe and Asia are ransacked for the 
 antique patterns they contain, and the latest design in 
 my lady’s boudoir was perhaps in the home of an Italian 
 noble or Chinese mandarin a century ago. Such silks 
 are largely woven by Jacquart hand-looms. Coming 
 often from China, the raw silk is “ thrown ” in Italy, 
 France and elsewhere on the Continent, but only occa- 
 sionally in England ; dyeing, however, is done in Leek 
 and Macclesfield. The industries of many lands are 
 thus laid under contribution ere a piece of finished silk 
 is set before us — and the width of a 63 in. cloth may 
 contain 16,000 threads ; of the threads there may lie 
 150,000 yards in one pound of raw silk ! Moreover, 
 the process of weaving by hand-looms is slow. A dex- 
 terous hand may weave one foot or two yards in a da y ? 
 according to the intricacy of the texture. The silk 
 passes from skein to bobbin, from bobbin to warping-mill ? 
 from warping-mill to beaming-frame, from beaming- 
 
124 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 frame to loom. Who will write for us on the romance 
 of weaving ? and what of the pathos with which it is 
 at times associated ? I visited one old woman — a lady 
 in manner and speech — who had known few pleasures? 
 for many years, saving those of toil at the loom. T 
 heard of her skill from a third person ; her contentment 
 and patience I could learn from her face. She told me, 
 with a touch of pardonable pride, of the costly silks she 
 had woven in her time — how she had made velvet for a 
 princess, and for the coronation of King Edward VII. 
 I contrasted her with the weaver in Arnold’s sonnet, 
 who looked “ thrice dispirited ” when seen through his 
 window in Spitalfields ; comparing her, rather, to the 
 blind weaver in a beautiful poem which I have failed to 
 trace. For this old weaver in Sudbury would, I am sure, 
 acquiesce in the poet’s words : 
 
 I do but keep the shuttles right, 
 
 And One above does all the rest. 
 
 The weaver bade me a cheery “ good morning,” as I 
 descended her staircase. Outside, the rain still fell 
 steadily, so I found welcome shelter at Ye Old Waggon. 
 I thought the hostel belied its name ; it was an old house 
 once, as surely as it was once new, but is now garnished 
 and fitted in such manner as to hide traces of age. Upon 
 the wall I saw that which carried me in thought to a 
 tiny room where a row of volumes in buckram, penned 
 by an unresting hand, is faced by the portrait of their 
 author. For here, little as I looked to see it, hung a 
 likeness of Stevenson, framed in oak, and beneath it are 
 copied words of prayer for strength to discharge the 
 duties of the day — words written at Vailima, surely 
 

SUDBURY 
 
 125 
 
 without a thought that they would ever meet eye of 
 man or woman at an inn in Suffolk. The prayer, seen 
 thus unexpectedly, moved me more than I care to say. 
 But, on reflection, I thought it not incongruously 
 placed ; for Stevenson deemed an inn as serviceable as 
 a church, and an honest potman far preferable to a 
 dishonest cleric. 
 
 Close to the inn I met the caretaker of St. Gregory’s. 
 The church adjoins the Croft and Walnut Tree Lane ; 
 and is full of interest. The old man pointed out what I 
 ought to observe, and discoursed on the “ moral of all 
 human tales ” with much fervour. He was deeper in 
 personal knowledge than in legendary or historic lore. 
 He knew nothing of Dowsing, who, on January 9, 1643, 
 visited this church with his helpers, “ brake down ten 
 mighty great Angels in glass,” and duly recorded the 
 fact in his Journal. But he led me from spot to spot 
 with a patience worthy of greater duties. He thought 
 highly of a verse on a headstone, a verse which has been 
 read in other graveyards : 
 
 This lovely bud, so young, so fair, 
 
 Called hence by early doom, 
 
 Just came to show how sweet a flower 
 In Paradise could bloom. 
 
 Close by, in an angle outside of the church, formed by 
 the south aisle and the tower, he showed me a curious 
 altar-tomb, with a canopy above ; on the wall behind 
 the slab there were formerly brasses, the outlines of which 
 can be clearly traced. Evidently this was the tomb of 
 some man of note, but his name, as my guide thought ? 
 will not be known till the Judgment. The brasses were 
 
126 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 perhaps removed by Dowsing, together with those 
 missing from slabs within and without the south porch. 
 
 The caretaker led me into the Carter Chapel, in the 
 south aisle, where he showed an inscription on the wall, 
 of unusual length. “ I’ll sit here,” said he, “ while you 
 copy the lot. It’s all true, as I can prove.” I did not 
 copy “ the lot,” but I noted its purport. It is a “ grate- 
 ful memorial ” of Thomas Carter, who, when making his 
 last will and testament in the year 1706, was concerned 
 for the poverty of St. Gregory’s Church, so he endowed 
 it with “ Impropriate tythes ” of some £60 per annum, 
 for the spiritual cure of the souls of the parish, and the 
 better maintenance of the minister. He also made a 
 far different provision, by which he earned the gratitude 
 of many generations, as we at least hope. He bequeathed 
 an estate, at Pebmarsh in Essex (six miles from Sudbury), 
 into the hands of trustees, with very specific instructions 
 touching the disposal of its annual rental, some £yo. 
 Upon the Feast of St. Thomas, every year for ever, an 
 anniversary sermon was to be preached in the church ; 
 fifty of the poorest men in Sudbury were to receive 
 “ outward garments,” i^.-worth to each man ; likewise, 
 fifty of the poorest women were to receive outward 
 garments, ior.-worth to each woman — which bequest, 
 as the inscription truly says, was a signal testimony of 
 his care for the bodies as well as the souls of men. That 
 sermon is still preached annually on St. Thomas’ Day. 
 A list of worthy recipients is drawn up in the Town 
 Hall ; these assemble to hear the discourse, and the 
 “ outward garments ” are afterwards distributed in the 
 vestry. And, lest the cynic should remark that charity 
 covers a multitude of sins, the inscription concludes with 
 
SUDBURY 
 
 127 
 
 words which I quote in full : “ His good name showeth 
 that his charity was no commutation for unjust dealing 
 or an ill-led life, and his excellent Will that he could 
 prudently choose the best method of entailing a blessing 
 upon what he left to his numerous relations. Learn from 
 this to emulate whatever was praiseworthy in him — 
 Farewell.” From the testimony of Defoe and others 
 as to the number of poor in Sudbury we may suppose 
 there has been little difficulty in finding recipients of 
 Thomas Carter’s bounty. 
 
 I was loth to leave this old church — so old that it is 
 named in the “ Saxon Chronicle.” The rain had spent 
 itself as I loitered in the Carter Chapel : as I passed into 
 the nave, the sunshine streamed brightly through its 
 large, mediaeval windows, touching the stonework of 
 arch and pillar to clearer beauty. The stalls and mise- 
 reres, of quaintly carved oak, are, it is supposed, survivals 
 from the day when St. Gregory’s knew its own college, 
 of which a gateway at the west end of the churchyard 
 is now the only relic. Something of this college and its 
 founder will be said in my next chapter. A curious 
 incident is recorded concerning a house that stood in the 
 churchyard early in the fifteenth century, but was long 
 ago demolished. I believe its very site is now forgotten. 
 It was once the refuge, hardly the home, of two hermits, 
 John Levynton and Richard Appleby. The latter was 
 “ a true Member of Holy Cherche and a gode gostly 
 Levere.” We may question how far God is honoured, 
 or “ Holy Church ” served, by men who sever their 
 connection with the world in which Providence has 
 placed them, hoping to merit Heaven by inhabiting a 
 hovel or cave, or by standing on a pillar. Far nobler, 
 
128 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 surely, is the man who braves the battle of life in its 
 every circumstance ; who discharges the trivial round 
 and the common task ; looking with a great content 
 into the face of wife and child, and with a great hope to 
 that day when all faithful service shall be rewarded. 
 The weak, not the strong, became hermits. The strong 
 man stood his ground, in mediaeval as in later times ; 
 it is the weak man 
 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
 
 And since ’tis hard to combat learns to fly, 
 
 thereby owning defeat, and leaving others to man the 
 ramparts he has himself deserted. A like cowardice is 
 shown, as it seems to me, by all who shun communion 
 with their fellows. The flaws, I take it, are in themselves 
 rather than in the world ; and no wholly sane man need 
 cry aloud in anguish, “ I have not loved the world, nor 
 the world me.” Richard Appleby was probably like 
 other hermits, whose sanctity was measured by the 
 wretchedness of their condition. In this respect the 
 hermits of the West differed little from those of the 
 East. “ The most perfect hermits,” wrote Gibbon, 
 “ are supposed to have passed many days without food, 
 many nights without sleep, and many years without 
 speaking ; and glorious was the man (I abuse that name) 
 who contrived any cell, or seat, of a peculiar construction, 
 which might expose him, in the most inconvenient 
 posture, to the inclemency of the seasons.” In short, 
 to fail in life, to skulk in some quiet corner and take 
 “ this for an hermitage ” was to be a “ gode gostly 
 Levere,” like the hermit of St. Gregory’s at Sudbury. 
 
 “ Something too much of this,” as Childe Harold 
 
SUDBURY 
 
 129 
 
 said after lamenting the evils of a cynical introspection, 
 and of the poisoned springs of life. Leaving these 
 memorials of other times, I sought the banks of the Stour, 
 and sauntered awhile in Friar’s Meadow, then past the 
 Flour Mills, past Croft Bridge, and across the open 
 meadow land among yellow hawkweed and purple 
 scabious, lesser scull-cap and bright silverweed. After 
 all, this seems a medley of a world, where we wander 
 hither and thither, asking of every spot its claim to notice. 
 Here a church has stood for a thousand years ; here a 
 library hoards the wisest thoughts of thirtv centuries ; 
 here a nook once sheltered a hermit ; here a martyr dyed 
 the earth with his blood ; here a king is known to have 
 wooed a fair lady ; here a poet penned verses that can 
 never die ; here a painter has immortalised a homely 
 scene ; here a palace, grim in solidity or grey with age, 
 was long the home of 
 
 . . . the heroic and the free, 
 
 The beautiful, the brave, the lords of earth and sea. 
 
 Here, where the Stour flows noiselessly through level 
 meads, I cared little enough for the kaleidoscope of 
 history, but a great deal for the flowers that blow beside 
 the river, or rest upon its bosom. Water plaintains 
 peep among the flowering rushes ; in the less accessible 
 reaches, half choked with sedge, the water-lily blooms ; 
 arrowhead and willow herb are plentiful ; the purple 
 loosestrife rears its tall spikes above a score of plants of 
 meaner growth. One of the handsomest plants that 
 border English waters, the purple loosestrife varies 
 greatly in size. I have never seen it taller than in Suffolk. 
 It always takes the eye — in our own country as in others 
 
130 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 where it is equally conspicuous ; it is a common object 
 in parts of America and Australia. Nor do I know a stream 
 more densely bordered with water-mint, or with the 
 yellow tansy, which grows so near the water’s edge that 
 we might suppose it a wholly aquatic plant. Beside 
 the Stour it is as plentiful as common flea-bane, and 
 nobody knows better than Suffolk lads and lasses how 
 common that flower is. 
 
 Turning from the river-side, the lover of old churches 
 and houses finds much of interest if, passing westwards 
 into Essex, he rambles awhile in the neighbourhood of 
 the Belchamp villages. At Belchamp Walter, some four 
 miles west from Sudbury, in a pleasant valley crossed 
 by a tributary of the Stour, he should enter the Church 
 of the Virgin Mary, having noticed its Perpendicular 
 tower, so beautifully mantled with ivy. Here, unless 
 the building has of late been restored beyond recognition, 
 is a floriated Norman font ; in the chancel is an ancient 
 aumbry, a piscena, and several windows of Early English 
 and Decorated types. He will notice, too, the carving 
 upon an arched recess, on the north side of the nave, 
 where lies one of the Earls of Oxford — those haughty 
 De Veres who had a home at Castle Hedingham, five 
 miles farther south-west, where you may still see the 
 massive Norman keep beneath which they so often rode, 
 the huge banqueting hall where they made merry on 
 occasion, the room where, in 1151, died Maud, daughter 
 of Count Eustace and wife of Stephen ; and, but few 
 yards from the castle, the Church of St. Nicholas, where 
 they worshipped when they listed. From Belchamp 
 Walter, turning once again towards the Stour, it is 
 two miles to Belchamp Otten. Here the small church, 
 
SUDBURY 
 
 131 
 
 dedicated to St. Ethelbert and All Saints, can show 
 fewer features of interest, but the south door is of fine 
 Norman workmanship, the font is ancient, and some 
 carved timbers beneath the belfry are of an age which can 
 only be vaguely surmised. The dedication to St. Ethel- 
 bert is due to the fact that he was King of East xArnglia? 
 and was deemed “ a Holy King ” ; he was foully mur- 
 dered by Offa of Mercia, and his story, like that of St. 
 Edmund the Martyr, gave rise to many legends. Bel- 
 champ St. Paul, still nearer the river, is a quiet village, 
 once owned by St. Paul’s Cathedral ; the church stands 
 apart, on high ground ; it contains some quaintly carved 
 benches, and the Perpendicular tower displays grotesque 
 gargoyles. 
 
 All this — as a Georgian divine remarked after discours- 
 ing for an hour on the trumpet of the seventh angel — 
 is a digression. At evenfall, prayers were chanted at 
 St. Peter’s Church before an audience of eight young 
 ladies and the writer. In many towns, the clergy 
 deserve praise for their brave persistence. Having 
 discretionary powers regarding the ordinances of their 
 church, they disdain to suspend an ill-attended service, 
 but do their part in the presence of few or many, facing 
 discouragements that would vanquish slacker men. My 
 thoughts wandered from the matters in hand ; but the 
 ladies were more devout, and I gathered from their 
 demeanour that evensong was with them a customary 
 devotion. Mr. Samuel Pepys — who was wont to stare 
 at pretty ladies in church, and once attempted to take 
 the hand of one of pleasing appearance, till she repulsed 
 him with a pin — would perhaps have profited by so 
 unique an opportunity, and have formed an acquaintance 
 
132 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 among such worshippers. But I, less gallant than he, 
 carried with me no memory of sweet faces seen in St. 
 Peter’s Church — much to the chagrin of my hostess 
 at the inn near by, who suspected the presence of a friend 
 in that bevy, and desired me to describe each individual ! 
 I fancy she pitied my indifference to their charms ; but 
 we drifted into copious talk, as traveller and hostess 
 will, and presently those ladies were forgotten by both. 
 Mine host, it appeared, was till recently in another 
 district ; but circumstances were adverse, and he had 
 come to try his fortune in the little Suffolk town. I 
 trust that fortune, who favours the brave, will favour 
 my acquaintance of that night ; so shall he nourish 
 kindly thoughts of Suffolk, and, go where he may, take 
 with him pleasant memories of Sudbury. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 SIMON OF SUDBURY 
 
 “ Among other things, 55 said the caretaker of St. Gre- 
 gory’s at Sudbury, “ here is this. 55 As he spoke, the old 
 man led me towards the vestry. Here, opening a tiny 
 niche in the wall, he drew forth a skull, well preserved, 
 but obviously of great antiquity. “ This, 55 said he, 
 “ is the skull of Simon Tybald. You’ve heard of him, 
 I daresay. He went in and out that old gateway in the 
 churchyard many a time. If you read what’s written 
 here you’ll see how he was killed.” He pointed to a small 
 parchment, affixed to the door of the niche. That 
 parchment, after some preamble, records that Simon 
 “ was at length barbarously beheaded upon Tower Hill 
 in London by the rabble in Wat Tyler’s Rebellion in the 
 reign of Richard II., 1382.”* The skull was promptly 
 replaced, lest it should suffer by too long exposure in the 
 open air. Thus, almost daily, this gruesome relic — 
 part and parcel of a scholar, prelate and statesman five 
 and a quarter centuries ago — is drawn from its dark 
 resting-place as a rare trophy of the past, and exhibited, 
 not without pride, to the curious eyes of visitors. 
 
 The story of which that skull is, as it were, the nucleus, 
 is nowhere very clearly or circumstantially set down, 
 for it is not fully known. It is dispersed through many 
 * The Insurrection under Wat Tyler occurred in 1381. 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 *34 
 
 volumes, and to gather its parts into one narrative is like 
 piecing together the fragments of some old shrine, long 
 since scattered, long since relegated to a forgotten recess, 
 “ neglected and apart.” For the most part, however, 
 those sources oi information are full of interest, and are 
 at least sufficiently full to provide matter for a vignette, 
 if not for a full-length portrait. 
 
 Simon Tybald was born in the parish of St. Gregory’s, 
 Sudbury, in his father’s house, which stood near the 
 west end of the church. The year of his birth is not 
 known. As a youth, he was sent to study in Paris, then 
 far ahead of most cities in the practice and patronage 
 of learning. It is probable, I think, that Tybald became 
 widely known as a theologian and churchman ; for he 
 was appointed Chaplain to Pope Innocent VI., who, as 
 Platina of Cremona tells us, was skilled in canon and civil 
 law ; moreover, this Pope was scrupulous to a nicety 
 in his choice of priests for preferment, always selecting 
 such as were known to be learned men of blameless life. 
 Of Tybald’s relations with the Pope we know little ; 
 nor does he figure prominently in English history until, 
 in 1356, he became Innocent’s nuncio at the Court of 
 Edward III. 
 
 In the age in wdiich Tybald lived and moved almost 
 every ecclesiastic of eminence filled some political office, 
 and the story of the church is inseparably blended with 
 that of the nation. This, in part due to the Papal policy 
 of general interference in European politics, was the chief 
 factor in the life of Tybald. He returned to England 
 when affairs were assuming a very grave aspect. The 
 year of his appointment as nuncio was the year of Poictiers; 
 we were exceedingly powerful in the eyes of all rivals, 
 
SIMON OF SUDBURY 
 
 135 
 
 but equally weak at home, where Chaucer and Wyclif 
 looked with shrewd eyes upon parties and communities 
 of conflicting interests. The Church, Romish in doctrine 
 and ritual, stoutly resisted the dictation of the Roman 
 Pontiff, as indeed she had done, whenever she pleased, 
 during every reign from the days of the Conqueror. 
 Shortly before Tybald became nuncio, our first Statute 
 of Praemunire had become law ; during the first year 
 of his nuncioship Wyclif published his “ Last Age of 
 the Church,” and it was evident that there must soon 
 be open conflict between the new and the old schools of 
 theology — between the men who read and revered the 
 Scriptures and the men who made religion a traffic in 
 relics and a school of beggary. In a word, the Papal 
 claims and abuses had become so monstrous that no 
 English Christian, with the Scriptures in his hand, could 
 shut his eyes to the fact that the Church needed reform- 
 ing. It was merely a question of the shape reform was 
 to assume. 
 
 Tybald was a man of complex character. In the light 
 of subsequent events, we must pronounce that he was 
 not well qualified for the offices which he filled. As a 
 parson at Sudbury he might have laboured for many 
 years and escaped serious censure or mishap, but he 
 was destined to fill positions which have proved fatal to 
 even abler men. As a prominent ecclesiastic, he had 
 difficult parts to play. In 1361 he was appointed by 
 Innocent VI. to the Bishopric of London, and soon had 
 occasion to make up his mind as to the extent of his 
 sympathy with political or ecclesiastical reformers. 
 He found much to reform in old St. Paul’s, and seems 
 to have desired that reformation should be thorough ; 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 136 
 
 but he wished it accomplished on his own lines rather 
 than on lines laid down by others. Moreover, he was 
 brought into contact with men who differed from him 
 as widely as they differed from one another ; and, clever 
 and learned as he certainly was, he lacked those command- 
 ing abilities which have at times enabled bishops to sub- 
 due archbishops, or archbishops to subdue Popes. His 
 limitations became more obvious as time passed, and when, 
 in 1375, he became Archbishop of Canterbury, he entered 
 upon a series of tasks which eventually compassed his 
 death. 
 
 The story of Tybald’s public life in England may be 
 divided into two episodes. The one is concerned with 
 his dealings with Wyclif, the other with his fatal contempt 
 for the lower orders of the people. Both episodes must 
 be briefly treated here ; as I am only concerned with 
 Tybald as a native of Sudbury, who deserves more than 
 such passing reference as might have been his portion 
 had I written of him when in that town. 
 
 The England against which Wyclif protested was so 
 corrupt that it is difficult to see how it could have been 
 worse. No one who has looked carefully into the history 
 of that period can wonder that Wyclif regarded the 
 awful ravage wrought by the Black Death as a chastise- 
 ment from the Almighty. At the time when Avignon, 
 as Petrarch said, was a residence of fiends and devils, 
 London and other large towns in England were largely 
 the resort of two classes, the robbers and the robbed. 
 We need not look far to learn that neither Chaucer nor 
 Langland drew exaggerated pictures of the life of their 
 contemporaries. Knighton tells us that Archbishop 
 Islip forbad curates to claim an increase in stipend of 
 
SIMON OF SUDBURY 
 
 137 
 
 more than one mark annually ; consequently, says 
 Stowe, many priests turned robbers rather than live 
 so meagrely ! At Court, according to Hollinshed, three 
 hundred servitors were employed in the daily preparation 
 of meat and drink for ten thousand persons, and the 
 general extravagance in apparel was if possible even 
 worse. Abuses of many kinds followed in the footsteps 
 of the mendicant friars, whom Wyclif, in a tract, charged 
 with stealing children by gross misrepresentations to 
 parents. The condition of the lower classes was wretched ; 
 the lowest, still liable to be bartered like cattle, was 
 hopelessly depraved and destitute. Wheat varied in 
 price from a few shillings to a few pounds per quarter, 
 apparently at haphazard, and the people were practically 
 robbed by the begging friars — some of whom, it must 
 in justice be said, were merely tools of a corrupt system. 
 Langland, after describing the luxury characteristic of 
 their convents, adds : 
 
 And yet these bilderes wiln beggen a bag ful of whete 
 Of a pure poor man that may onethe paye 
 Half his rent in a yere, and half ben behynde. 
 
 Now, in face of these facts, which Tybald must surely 
 have known, we can but wonder why he was not more 
 favourably inclined towards Wyclif and all that Wyclif s 
 followers advocated. He can hardly have doubted the 
 reformer’s personal integrity. The same year which saw 
 Tybald made Bishop of London saw Wyclif chosen 
 Warden of Baliol, and Tybald might easily have learned 
 how thoroughly Wyclif deserved the honour. The 
 explanation of Tybald’s attitude towards Wyclif lies, 
 I think, in the conflicting prejudices which he nourished, 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 138 
 
 and which led me to mention his complex character. 
 He was an ecclesiastical reformer ; on one occasion he 
 blamed the Canterbury pilgrims for their folly, and 
 pointed out how hardly they could hope for indulgence 
 through patronage of the Shrine of Becket. But he was 
 a reactionary in politics. Hence Wyclif, whose protests 
 were as much concerned with the condition of priest and 
 peasant as with the tenets of theology or the encroach- 
 ments of the Papacy, appeared to Tybald as a reformer 
 whose noble aspirations must not be too zealously en- 
 couraged because of his sympathies with the illiterate 
 rabble. The Church has spoiled many a politician ; 
 Tybald was a Churchman spoiled by politics ; one of 
 many who, then as in other ages, failed to distinguish 
 between opinions and prejudices. 
 
 Tybald and Wyclif met at the Conference of Bruges, 
 soon after the former’s translation to Canterbury. The 
 circumstances under which they met were such as to 
 justify my views as to Tybald’s attitude towards Wyclif. 
 Tybald’s commission empowered him to confer with the 
 representatives of Gregory XI. touching the disputed 
 tribute from this country, which the Parliament had 
 decided to withhold. There can be little doubt that on 
 this matter the views of Tybald and Wyclif were practi- 
 cally identical, and we may well suppose that, far from 
 engaging in unpleasant disputes, the two ecclesiastics 
 fraternised agreeably on that occasion. Moreover, when, 
 early in 13 77, Gregory ordered Tybald to summon 
 Wyclif to a trial for heresy, the Archbishop seems to have 
 been very willing to throw the onus of the whole proceed- 
 ing on Courtenay, his successor as Bishop of London, 
 and was perhaps secretly pleased at the abortive result 
 
SIMON OF SUDBURY 
 
 139 
 
 of the trial in St. Paul’s, so sensationally broken up by 
 the adherents of the accused and the followers of John 
 of Gaunt. The mere facts that Tybald, in partial 
 obedience to the Papal demand, had deprived Wyclif 
 and ordered him to spread no more heretical doctrines 
 abroad, proves little or nothing as to the measure of 
 sympathy felt by the Archbishop for the Reformer. 
 Tybald probably did many things as Archbishop which 
 were opposed to his own views. Foxe, despite the brief 
 which was ever in his hand, was probably correct when he 
 wrote of the Bishops as “ urging and inciting their Arch- 
 bishop Simon Sudburie ” to grant an order of citation 
 for Wyclif to appear before them. 
 
 Tybald was probably as pleased with the result of the 
 next step taken by the Pope to silence Wyclif, for there 
 is no reason to suppose that he differed from the digni- 
 taries of Oxford, who showed little disposition to comply 
 with the Pope’s demands. He wrote, however, to the 
 Chancellor of that University, requesting that Wyclif 
 should appear before his ecclesiastical superiors to answer 
 for the faith that was in him. Accordingly Wyclif 
 appeared before the Synod of Lambeth in 1378. But 
 although now deprived of the active assistance of John 
 of Gaunt, other friends were not lacking. Many entered 
 the Archiepiscopal Chapel by force, declaring themselves 
 upholders of the accused, and violence would probably 
 have been done had Wyclif been seriously in danger ; but 
 the trial was again abortive, for Anne of Bohemia inter- 
 vened, and Sir Lewis Clifford, in her name, commanded 
 the Synod to withhold sentence. 
 
 During these years, Tybald had not forgotten his 
 native town of Sudbury. Together with his brother, 
 
Ho IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 known as John of Chertsey, he purchased the entire 
 property of St. Gregory’s Church, rebuilt much of the 
 west end, and erected a College a little westward from 
 the tower, on the ground formerly occupied by his father’s 
 house, for the maintenance of five priests and a Warden. 
 At Canterbury, too, he is remembered by the gate which 
 he built “ on the line where the eastern wall ran along 
 the Stour,” still known as the West Gate, and for his 
 efforts to restore the cathedral. But he was one of many 
 prelates whose lives were almost entirely occupied in 
 the discharge of public duties ; and those petty details 
 concerning places visited, or books read or written, 
 often so full of interest, are wholly lacking from the story 
 of Simon of Sudbury. We know, however, that during 
 his visitation in 1376, he was drawn into a quarrel with 
 the monks of St. Augustine’s at Canterbury, a quarrel 
 which was still sub judice when he died. 
 
 When, on July 16, 1377, Tybald placed the crown on 
 the head of Richard II., he may be said to have enacted 
 the first scene in the tragedy of his death. Edward III. 
 had greatly impoverished the country by those wars 
 which had brought so much glory to our arms, and his 
 successor, a mere boy, was promptly confronted by 
 empty coffers and discontented subjects. Nor did matters 
 mend ; on the contrary, they grew from bad to worse 
 until, when Tybald became Chancellor of England in 
 1380, it was no longer possible to avoid some measure 
 for the creation of funds. The Parliament met at 
 Northampton, and Tvbald urged the need for a large 
 grant. The grant was provided by a poll-tax. The 
 people immediately rose, and took violent measures. 
 They broke into the prison at Maidstone, releasing the 
 
SIMON OF SUDBURY 
 
 I 4 I 
 
 priest John Ball, whom Tybald had excommunicated ; 
 they robbed Tybald’s house at Canterbury; they sacked 
 his palace at Lambeth. Tybald, naturally exasperated 
 by such outrages, followed a very unwise course. He 
 spoke contemptuously of the people, and belittled their 
 grievances ; he even called them “ barefooted rebels ” 
 in the hearing of others, and urged Richard not to 
 conciliate but to subdue them. 
 
 The 100,000 men who assembled on Blackheath in 
 1381 were in no mood to be trifled with. Inflamed 
 against all their rulers as such, and particularly against 
 Tybald as the real or supposed author of their latest 
 grievance, they poured into London like a flood. On 
 June 13 they gathered upon Tower Hill, under the 
 leadership of Jack Straw, and clamoured ominously for 
 Tybald, who was known to be in the Tower with Richard 
 and others. They seem, however, to have hesitated 
 before deciding on violent measures, for, if I read the 
 story aright, that day passed without anything being 
 done. Next morning, in the Tower, Tybald celebrated 
 Mass before the King. The mob had already surrounded 
 the place, but waited until the King withdrew before 
 forcing entrance. Then, denouncing Tybald as a traitor 
 to the kingdom and the spoiler of the Commons, they 
 brought him out by force upon Tower Hill. Here, 
 after repeated blows, an Essex man named John Starling 
 struck the head from the Chancellor’s shoulders, and the 
 name of Simon Tybald of Sudbury was added to the long 
 list of those who, in troubled times, have lost their lives 
 because of their eminence. Stowe mentions that the 
 Treasurer, the King’s confessor and a sergeant perished 
 at the same time. 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 142 
 
 Southey’s Wat Tyler, now seldom read, probably 
 voices the sentiments of the actors in this tragedy with at 
 least approximate accuracy. Here are some passages 
 from Act II., concerning what passed in the Tower on 
 that morning : 
 
 King. What must we do ? the danger grows more imminent, 
 
 The mob increases. 
 
 Philpot. Every moment brings 
 
 Fresh tidings of our peril. 
 
 King. It were well 
 
 To grant them what they ask. 
 
 Archbishop. Ay, that my liege 
 
 Were politic. Go boldly forth to meet them, 
 
 Grant all they ask — however wild and ruinous — 
 
 Meantime, the troops you have already summon’d 
 Will gather round them. Then my Christian power 
 Absolves you of your promise. . . . 
 
 Lull them by promises — bespeak them fair. 
 
 Go forth, my liege — spare not, if need requires, 
 
 A solemn oath to ratify the treaty. . . . 
 
 It is the sacred privilege of Kings, 
 
 Howe’er they act, to render no account 
 
 To man. The people have been taught this lesson, 
 
 Nor can they soon forget it. 
 
 In another scene, Southey makes the rioters allude to 
 Tybald after his death : 
 
 John Ball. Jack Straw has forced the Tower : seized the 
 Archbishop 
 
 And beheaded him. . . . 
 
 Piers. This Archbishop, 
 
 He was oppressive to his humble vassals : 
 
 Proud, haughty, avaricious 
 
 Ball. A true high priest, 
 
 Preaching humility with his mitre on, 
 
 Praising up alms and Christian charity, 
 
SIMON OF SUDBURY 
 
 H3 
 
 Even whilst his unforgiving hand distress’d 
 His honest tenants. 
 
 Piers. He deserv’d his fate, then. 
 
 * * * # # 
 
 It is not easy to determine exactly what followed 
 after the murder of Tybald, nor do printed records bear 
 out traditions cherished in Sudbury and repeated to 
 visitors. It is said that Tybald’s body lay for two days 
 where the executioner had left it, but the head was 
 carried about on a pole and presently placed on London 
 Bridge. Subsequently Sir William Walworth ordered 
 the body to be removed to Canterbury for burial. This 
 was apparently done, and Tybald was interred on the 
 south side of the altar of St. Dunstan, where his monu- 
 ment, beneath a canopy, may still be seen. But the men 
 of Sudbury have long believed that Tybald’s body was 
 brought to his birthplace, and buried under a large slab 
 of black marble in St. Gregory’s Church, where the figure 
 of a mitre can be traced ; others have asserted that once, 
 when his tomb at Canterbury was examined, a cannon- 
 ball was found where the skull should have been. Perhaps 
 it is impossible to settle the point, for two suppositions 
 are equally plausible. It is likely enough that some 
 friends of Tybald, finding his body was to be carried to 
 Canterbury, secured the skull from London Bridge, and 
 took it to Sudbury ; it is as likely that skull and trunk 
 were promptly brought together when Walworth ordered 
 their burial, and that the skull at Sudbury is not the skull 
 of Tybald, but that of another who perished at the same 
 time. Obviously, no such doubts disturbed the faith 
 of the caretaker of St. Gregory’s, as he lovingly replaced 
 the skull in its niche ; nor did I deem it necessary to 
 shake the foundations of his belief. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 LONG MELFORD 
 
 Mr. Dutt has described Long Melford as a “ delightful 
 old town,” and such it is. Its name is appropriate. 
 From the railway station at its southern end to the grand 
 old church on Melford Green is a distance of two miles ; 
 and one long line of houses, old or new, picturesque or 
 ugly, stretches almost from the former to the latter. 
 Hardly a type of English home is lacking in that thorough- 
 fare, which comprises the whole town. Young women 
 peer down upon the passer-by from dormer windows 
 which their ancestors deemed ancient ; old shopkeepers 
 — shrewd, hale Englishmen — stand in their doorways 
 to exchange salutations with their neighbours, or to eye 
 with interest the passing stranger ; men and women, 
 older still, sit at open doorways gazing out upon the street 
 as they will do daily until, when the summons comes — 
 mysteriously, perhaps, as it came to Will o’ the Mill — 
 they are carried from those small rooms that sheltered 
 them all their life long. To such, the passing of strangers 
 is an incident of unfailing interest. I have watched 
 these old folk when, catching sight of an unfamiliar figure 
 in the street, they rose feebly, the better to scrutinise 
 them, and, shading their eyes with shaking hand, watched 
 them pass into an indistinct' distance, where failing 
 eyesight could follow no longer. 
 
LONG MELFORD 
 
 H5 
 
 Defoe, who passed through Long Melford on his way 
 to Lavenham and Bury St. Edmunds, found it “ full of 
 very good houses.” He was told that the “ village ” 
 was richer than Sudbury, and that many wealthy manu- 
 facturers resided in it. Like Sudbury, it was a busy 
 centre of the clothing industries in the fifteenth century, 
 and seems to have experienced as many ups and downs 
 in its fortunes. Long ago, the manor was owned by the 
 monks of Bury St. Edmunds, who owned so much. It 
 is hardly a town of historic importance. But stories have 
 gathered around it, as they gather around every town 
 and village in the lapse of time ; and Sir William Parker 
 penned an interesting book when he wrote his “ History 
 of Long Melford.” 
 
 The monks of Bury St. Edmunds, once upon a time, 
 had much to talk of concerning doings at Melford, not 
 then called “ Long.” The story takes us back to Abbot 
 Samson, whom we thought of on the hillside near Bures. 
 It came to pass that one Geoffrey Riddell, then Bishop 
 of Ely, requested Samson to supply him with timber 
 from his extensive woodlands, to be used for structures 
 at Glemsford, a village north-west from Melford Green. 
 Perhaps the Bishop, thinking of the difficulties of con- 
 veyance from afar, remembered the Abbot’s fine timbers, 
 within reasonable distance ; perhaps he sought occasion 
 to exert a fancied prerogative. Now, as it chanced, the 
 Abbot was then staying in the manor-house at Melford, 
 his own possession, and hither came the messenger 
 from the Bishop, proposing to fell such trees as were 
 required in Elmswell Wood — a spot near Tostock, 
 where Richard Sibbes, author of the “ Bruised Reed,” 
 was born in 1577 ; and equally near Woolpit, famous 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 146 
 
 through the fairy-tale of William of Newburgh. The 
 Abbot did not wish to comply, but feared to offend by 
 a direct refusal. So, thinking how best to avoid open 
 rupture, he remembered that the request was for timber 
 standing at Elmswell , where no large timber stood. 
 Obviously a mistake had been made ; the monk-messenger 
 should have named Elmset , a spot shaded by fine old 
 oaks, on Melford Manor itself. So the Abbot had 
 recourse to subterfuge, in which he was eminently 
 skilled. Permission was granted for the felling of timber 
 in Elmswell Wood ; then, the Abbot’s woodmen set to 
 work lustily, and felled the best trees in Elmset for other 
 purposes — trees which, as it proved, had already been 
 marked for the Bishop’s use ! They piled the trunks ; 
 they branded them with the mark of their monastery ; 
 they carried them to Bury St. Edmunds, and there used 
 them for roofing the tower. Meanwhile, at Ely, the 
 mistake was discovered ; the monk was scolded and sent 
 back to Melford — too late. “ A practical Abbot,” 
 says Carlyle, who repeats the story in his own incompar- 
 able way — half caustic, half humorous ; leaving a vivid 
 impression of the incident on the minds of readers. 
 The “ manor ” of Melford, according to this narrative, 
 was extensive. I do not know whether its extent is 
 known, but if by Elmset is meant the “ village with a 
 moated rectory,” now usually spelt Elmsett, those oaks 
 stood far enough from both Glemsford and Bury St. 
 Edmunds. For Elmsett is close to Aldham Common, 
 which we shall presently visit, and, as the crow flies, 
 is about twelve miles from Long Melford Station. 
 
 If, after the manner of Professor Masson in his “ Life 
 of Milton,” I were to indulge a hundred more or less 
 
The Church Porch, Bergholt. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
LONG MELFORD 
 
 147 
 
 plausible conjectures, I might stand here in Long Mel- 
 ford, thinking of the many happy holiday hours that 
 Constable may have spent in this town, when he escaped 
 awhile from the flogging usher at Lavenham. For 
 that little town, whither I must soon wander, is but an 
 hour’s walk to the north-east, and Constable doubtless 
 knew Long Melford well enough in his schooldays. 
 He would find much here to take the eye. The old 
 water-mill at the north end of the town, on a tributary 
 of the Stour, would charm him, as such buildings always 
 did ; certainly he would recognise a picture in the house 
 opposite, of massive oaken timbers and diagonal brick- 
 work, its upper rooms projecting two feet beyond the 
 lower ; over its porch is inscribed the date 1610. He 
 would delight, too, in the country between here and 
 Acton, more thickly wooded than most districts in southern 
 Suffolk, and in many of the older village churches here- 
 abouts, so picturesquely situated in quiet graveyards 
 among the fields, as at Acton itself. But, however 
 this may be, he found subjects for his Suffolk pictures 
 nearer home, and it is of Gainsborough, rather than of 
 Constable, that men talk in Long Melford. 
 
 I found proof of this at the inn where I stayed, near 
 the lane that leads to Acton and to Great Waldingfield. 
 Here I met one who, as I subsequently learned, was, 
 like Coleridge, “ a noticeable man,” chiefly for his 
 tender solicitude for the fame of Gainsborough and for 
 the pertinacity with which he urged the merits of The 
 Market Cart against those of The Haywain . He talked 
 much, and Gainsborough’s pictures formed the staple of 
 his talk. He took them, as it were, under his own wing. 
 He challenged all comers, and was obviously a brave 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 148 
 
 knight. When routed in argument, which — me judice — 
 he often was, he would cover his retreat by a skilfully 
 contrived transition. But he was at you again in- 
 stantly, fresh as ever and perhaps still more enthusiastic. 
 
 “ B ,” said the landlord, “ is like the Duke of 
 
 Wellington. He’s not to be beat.” 
 
 I doubt if another artist ever had such a champion. 
 He reminded me of Goldsmith’s village statesmen, for 
 his “ news ” was certainly much “ older than his ale.” 
 By him Pope’s dictum was usually inverted : he pro- 
 posed things forgotten by his audience as things un- 
 known to any save himself. “ Sir,” he would suddenly 
 burst out, “ have I lived in Sudbury, where Thomas 
 Gainsborough was born, or have you.” Here was a 
 poser calling for politic evasion, for to confess one’s 
 unfamiliarity with Sudbury was, in his eyes, to own 
 yourself wholly ignorant of all matters touching Gains- 
 borough, his family, his ways, or his works. Perhaps he 
 claimed kinship with the artist’s descendants, but my 
 memory is not clear on the point. He had, I think, 
 three topics which he pressed most strongly on our 
 attention. He knew all about Tom Peartree and Tom 
 Peartree’s picture ; he was sure no man in Ipswich knew 
 anything about Gainsborough ; he was even more sure 
 that no man in Bath knew anything about Gainsborough’s 
 pictures. He was spare to leanness ; he had dark, 
 restless eyes, which roved from face to face as if searching 
 out objectors. No great drinker as to quantity, he 
 punctuated every sentence with a sip of ale. This, I 
 believe, was purely a habit, altogether apart from any 
 desire to drink ; moreover, he pressed his forefinger into 
 his pipe almost between every draw, evidently a trick 
 
LONG MELFORD 
 
 149 
 
 generated by nervous excitement. He talked inces- 
 santly. Like Coleridge, he brushed aside the comment 
 of others as wholly irrelevant to his subject : “ If you 
 will allow me to speak ” — so ran the remonstrance when- 
 ever he was interrupted. I could write down his remarks 
 at Long Melford, where I listened to him for an hour, 
 almost verbatim, so vivid was the impression he created. 
 Our remembrance of talk is often in inverse ratio to its 
 worth. I shall always think of this eccentric, not as one 
 who makes much public stir or declaims in the street, 
 but as one moving from inn to inn, airing his prejudices 
 over his ale or displaying his erudition in the bar parlour. 
 Like the Greek poet in Athenaeus, recently referred to 
 by Mr. Andrew Lang, he may be set down for a chatterer 
 on trifles. 
 
 The glory of Long Melford is its church. Like that 
 at Lavenham, it is of noble proportions and of great size. 
 It is certainly one of the finest Late Perpendicular 
 churches in East Anglia. I may describe it as truly 
 orthodox in its parts — chancel, nave, aisles, clerestory, 
 chapels, and lofty tower at the west end, recently rebuilt, 
 but still in tasteful harmony with the whole structure. 
 Let us consider it, as I did on a day of brilliant sun- 
 shine in early autumn. I approached from Melford 
 Green, that stretches with many undulations from the 
 churchyard to the mill-bridge. I could not see the 
 whole until close at hand ; it is hidden partly by huge 
 elms and chestnuts that flank the Green and partly by 
 the old, red-brick hospital, for “ twelve poor men and 
 two poor women,” founded in 1573 by Sir William 
 Cordell. Even then I lingered under the shadow of its 
 tower, and paced from south porch to Lady Chapel, 
 
150 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 before grasping its dimensions. The Lady Chapel, 
 built by the Cloptons of Kentwell Hall close by, is four 
 centuries old and is distinct from the church itself, which 
 is little short of two hundred feet in length and contains 
 nearly one hundred large windows. The tower, battle- 
 mented and pinnacled, is perhaps a little dwarfed by the 
 great length of the battlemented clerestory, which 
 contains eighteen windows on each side — a number 
 largely exceeding that in most parish churches, even of 
 great size. The windows of the aisles reach almost from 
 ground to roof. 
 
 Let us enter. To do so is to perceive at once the 
 beauty of the nave arcade, the bold sculpture of arch and 
 pier, the loftiness of the clerestory, and the richness of 
 the windows. These windows were referred to inci- 
 dentally in a paper read four years ago before the Royal 
 Historical Society. For them the church was chiefly 
 indebted to John Clopton, who, after escaping death 
 on a charge of treason, retired to Kentwell Hall and 
 spent time and substance in the adornment of his parish 
 church. Once again we come in touch with the Flemings, 
 two of whom — Antony Ammoson, an artist, and Henry 
 Phelypp, a sculptor — wrought here together with the 
 rector, a monk from Bury St. Edmonds. The windows 
 which they designed and inserted have been justly 
 styled a picture-gallery, with fifteenth-century portraits 
 of judges and justices, mayors, citizens and burgesses, 
 prior and priest — one and all represented as attired in 
 the garb and after the manner of the day. They are 
 evidently the work of no mean hand ; nor can the monu- 
 mental carving have been the produce of other than a 
 man of genius. These portraits are thought to be 
 
LONG MELFORD 
 
 151 
 
 mostly from acquaintances of Clopton himself. The 
 monuments are many. To Richard Almack the anti- 
 quary, who died in 1875, there is a tablet in the north 
 aisle ; as also a brass to the memory of Francis Clopton, 
 who died in 1558 and whose father rests beneath a slab 
 near by. Here — I forget its precise position — is the 
 altar tomb of Sir Hyde Parker, Bart., Vice-Admiral of 
 the Blue Squadron and Commander-in-Chief at St. 
 Lucie on March 25, 1780, and in the famous action off 
 the Dogger Bank in 1781 : he went down in H.M.S. 
 Cato in the following year, whilst bound for the East 
 Indies, where he had been appointed Chief Naval Com- 
 mander. In the chancel a tomb of marble, supporting 
 a recumbent effigy with clasped hands, with a canopy 
 above, is that of Sir William Cordell, who died in 1580. 
 He resided at Melford Hall, a fine Elizabethan structure 
 which still stands near the church, and which he probably 
 built. His portrait, on a panel, hangs among others in 
 that old home, where he entertained his Queen with 
 lavish expenditure in 1578. He was Speaker of the 
 House in the days of Mary ; and was afterwards Master 
 of the Rolls. 
 
 Returning to the north aisle, I noticed upon the wall 
 an alabaster carving. It represents the Adoration of 
 the Magi. Some time back, as I was told, this carving 
 was found under the floor of the church. Such a work 
 of art must surely have been so hidden purposely, perhaps 
 to save it from destructive hands. Not only is the carving 
 good ; the sculptor entered into the spirit of the story, 
 treating it with appropriate simplicity. Some lines from 
 Longfellow came to mind as I looked at that eloquent 
 handiwork, so strangely rescued and brought to light. 
 
152 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 The poem, “The Three Kings,” is beautiful as the 
 alabaster. 
 
 To turn from that relic and enter the Clopton Chapel, 
 at the east end of the north aisle, is but to turn from 
 grave to grave, from monument to monument, from 
 effigy to effigy. The grief which found utterance when 
 those graves were opened is now as some “ old, unhappy, 
 far-off, thing ” ; we cannot say with Shelley : 
 
 Here pause. These graves are all too young as yet 
 To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned 
 Its charge to each ; 
 
 for many generations have come and gone since the men 
 and women whose memories are here enshrined were 
 laid to rest ; the recessed tomb of Sir William Clopton 
 bears the date 1446. Round the cornice of this chapel a 
 scroll, carved and painted, is inscribed with verses in 
 Gothic character by Lydgate of Bury St. Edmunds, 
 whose works found so much favour in the eyes of Gray 
 and Coleridge. Graves of like antiquity are in the 
 Martyn Chapel, at the corresponding end of the south 
 aisle. Masses for those who sleep in these chapels must 
 often have been sung, for the church still shows the 
 positions of six altars, marked by their remaining piscinae. 
 Fifty years after the death of Sir William Clopton the 
 elder, his descendants built the Lady Chapel, placing it, 
 as customary, at the east end of the chancel. This was 
 long used as a school, but divine service is now conducted 
 in it. 
 
 The rectors of Melford date from 1309, when the 
 office was filled by Symon de Clayber, “ presbiter,” who, 
 doubtless, like the rector in John Clopton’s day, came 
 
LONG MELFORD 
 
 I S3 
 
 from the monastery that owned the manor. His many 
 successors are less known to history than — for instance — 
 the rectors of Hadleigh ; nor are their names familiar to 
 the student of English literature. Concerning one of 
 them, Dr. Robert Warren, a story is told in Walker’s 
 “ Sufferings of the Clergy ” and is referred to in Raven’s 
 “ History of Suffolk.” Warren was informed against 
 during the inquiry touching “ scandalous ministers,” 
 and, according to Walker, was ejected from the living 
 in August 1641. He was also robbed of material posses- 
 sions — “ five very good horses and his household furni- 
 ture.” The story runs that as the .rector was going 
 homewards, after being turned out of his pulpit, one 
 of his enemies walked before thumping a frying-pan in 
 imitation of the sanctus bell, which the rector had been 
 charged with using. Perhaps nothing is more strange, 
 in this world of strange things, than the whirligig of 
 religious opinion and prejudice. The Reformation in 
 England, which consigned the sanctus bell and other 
 ritualistic paraphernalia to the rubbish-heap, was effected, 
 in the main, not by irresponsible zealots but by bishops 
 of our church, whose successors show a yearly increasing 
 tendency to sanction their use. 
 
 Kentwell Hall, faced by a fine avenue of limes, is, like 
 Melford Hall, an Elizabethan house, having been built 
 by Thomas Clopton, who died in 1597. Its ivy-mantled 
 turrets and lofty mullioned windows are conspicuous ; 
 it is surrounded by a moat, spanned by two bridges. A 
 granddaughter of this Thomas Clopton was married, 
 when almost a child, to a man famous in his day and 
 generation and intimately associated with Suffolk life. 
 Moreover, he was an eccentric and an ardent antiquarian, 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 iS4 
 
 and although not a Suffolk man by birth, is usually 
 remembered when we call to mind the worthies of this 
 county. 
 
 Simonds D’Ewes was born at Coxden in Dorsetshire 
 in 1602. He was at school at Lavenham and in Bury 
 St. Edmunds. From early days he was partial to sermons, 
 which he sometimes wrote, and to all manner of research 
 among what Poe has called “ quaint and curious volumes 
 of forgotten lore.” At Cambridge, where he subse- 
 quently studied, he was once nearly killed by a bell-rope 
 in the gateway of St. John’s College, which drew him 
 high into the air. Anne Clopton of Kentwell Hall was 
 his first wife, whom he married in 1626 and who brought 
 him welcome increase of means. His independent posi- 
 tion enabled him to pursue his historic investigations 
 with unwearying industry : he searched the records of 
 the Tower ; he studied law ; he apparently intended 
 to write the history of Britain entirely from original 
 sources. He resided for some years at Stowlangtoft, 
 in Suffolk, in a house inherited from his father, Paul 
 D’Ewes, who lies in the parish church. Though knighted 
 by Charles I., he was a sturdy Puritan ; Carlyle calls him 
 a man of “ high-flown conscientiousness,” adding that 
 he was “ really a most spotless man and High Sheriff ” — 
 an allusion to D’Ewes’ appointment, in 1639, as High 
 Sheriff of Suffolk. In the Long Parliament, which he 
 entered in 1640, he sat as Member for Sudbury together 
 with Sir Robert Crane, and soon became known for his 
 irrelevant citation of innumerable fact and dates, a habit 
 in which he persisted so obstinately that he was expelled 
 when Colonel Pride effected his notorious “ Purge,” 
 December 6, 1648. A year and a half later he died, 
 
LONG MELFORD 
 
 *5 5 
 
 partly, perhaps, through the loss of his seat. His diary 
 of the Long Parliament, consisting of notes of its sittings 
 during five years, may be consulted, in five volumes, in 
 the Harleian Library at the British Museum. He has 
 always been interesting, and often profitable, to the 
 historian. His “ Autobiography and Correspondence,” 
 edited by J. O. Halliwell and published in 1845, is full of 
 valuable matter, and is a store-house from which many 
 volumes have been in part drawn. D’Israeli, in his 
 “ Curiosities of Literature,” alludes to D’Ewes in the 
 article on “ Diaries,” and quotes the words in which that 
 indefatigable chronicler expressed his innermost aspira- 
 tions. “ Having now finished these volumes (his Journals) 
 I have already entered upon other and greater labours, 
 conceiving myself not to be born for myself alone.” 
 D’Ewes then enumerates his historical books that are to 
 be, adding, in words characteristic of his wistful ambi- 
 tions : “ These I have proposed to myself to labour in, 
 besides divers others, smaller works ; like him that shoots 
 at the sun, not in hopes to reach it but to shoot as high 
 as possibly his strength, art, or skill will permit. So, 
 though I know it impossible to finish all these during my 
 short and uncertain life, having already entered into the 
 thirtieth year of my age and having many unavoidable 
 cares of an estate and family, yet, if I can finish a little in 
 each kind, it may hereafter stir up some able judges to 
 add an end to the whole : 
 
 “ Sic mihi contingat vivere, sicque mori.” 
 
 In his will D’Ewes ordered that his “ precious library ” 
 should be preserved entire. This was done by the imme- 
 diate successors to his estate ; but it was sold^by^Sir 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 156 
 
 Simonds D’Ewes early in the following century to Robert 
 Harley, Earl of Oxford. 
 
 Of D’Ewes’ child-wife from Kentwell Hall we know 
 little ; his second wife was Elizabeth, daughter of Sir 
 H. Willoughby. He was succeeded by his son, Wil- 
 loughby D’Ewes ; his only surviving daughter, Cecilia, 
 married Sir Thomas D’Arcy, of St. Osyth in Essex. The 
 D’Ewes baronetcy terminated with the death of Sir 
 Jermyn D’Ewes in 1731. Readers may remember Car- 
 lyle’s essay on “ An Election to the Long Parliament,” 
 in which Simonds D’Ewes appears. The election for 
 Ipswich was held under Simonds’ writ as High Sheriff, 
 on “ an extreme windy morning.” The temper of 
 partisans was as boisterous as the elements ; even the 
 High Sheriff did not escape calumny, for he was charged 
 with having been “ damnedly base in all his carriage.” 
 Two Puritans were declared elected, so D’Ewes was 
 probably little troubled by the accusation. 
 
 Later in the day, sauntering here and there in the 
 long street, I saw little to suggest a paragraph. The 
 town is well supplied with inns, hardly an unusual 
 feature ; but many are comparatively modern, and 
 even from those of older date the romance has largely 
 passed away. The romance of these old inns was, for 
 the most part, inseparable from that of the highway, and 
 we seek it in vain in days when the coach has almost left 
 the road ; when ladies seldom elope with their lovers ; 
 when everybody travels in feverish haste ; when many of 
 those who ride from town to town on bicycles seek the 
 Temperance Hotel rather than the King’s Head. So, 
 turning into the lane near the Bull, I continued my search 
 farther afield, where the road to Acton is bordered, in 
 
LONG MELFORD 
 
 157 
 
 places, with masses of pink willow-herb, and blue bugloss 
 flowers profusely in clefts and hollows where the ground 
 is much broken. Groups of tiny children strayed on 
 the banks beside this pleasant winding road, plucking 
 flowers as they passed : one, a ragged young scamp, 
 might have sat for the boy, with driftwood in his hands, 
 in Gainsborough’s Rustic Children . 
 
 Turning at length into a field path, I came to Acton 
 Church — a small sanctuary, in almost ruinous condition, 
 with ampelopsis creeping over its walls, mingled with 
 climbing roses. The tower, long ago deemed unsafe, 
 was partly demolished in 1885, and is still unrestored. 
 Under its shadow is a grave bearing this inscription : 
 
 Glory not in youth, for youth is frail, 
 
 Glory not in health, for health must fail ; 
 
 Glory not in wealth, for riches fly, 
 
 Glory not in might, for might must die. 
 
 The words, for aught I know, may be seen in other 
 churchyards, nor did I come hither to copy them. I 
 came rather, as others have done before, to see what 
 Boutell has described as “ on the whole the finest mili- 
 tary brass in existence.” I was disapponted ; the door 
 was locked ; I could see little by peering through the 
 windows, and time pressed. Not a soul was in sight, 
 nor could I obtain the key on inquiry at the nearest 
 cottage ; so I can only speak of this brass from repute. 
 It is that of Robert de Bures, of whom I know nothing ; 
 it bears the date 1302, and is remarkable as one of five 
 effigies, wholly in chain-mail, yet remaining in England. 
 Such relics have often been removed from their positions, 
 and subsequently recovered and replaced, like the even 
 
158 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 older brass in Gorleston Church ; but it is claimed that 
 the brass of Robert de Bures is to-day where it was placed 
 six hundred years ago. England is still, by comparison 
 with any other country, very rich in these interesting 
 memorials, so imperishable unless wantonly defaced, 
 and where removal is unavoidable they should be care- 
 fully cherished, for they are invaluable to the student of 
 local history. Another brass at Acton perpetuates the 
 memory of Alice de Bures, and is thought to date from 
 about 1425, or a little earlier than the oldest Clopton 
 brass at Long Melford. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 LAVENHAM 
 
 I looked for pleasant hours in Lavenham, and was not 
 disappointed. I entered the town in the evening, when 
 men and maids were strolling in the growing gloom — a 
 gloom that did not deepen into darkness. Stevenson 
 would have called it “ a fine night of stars.” But the 
 stars presently paled before the rising moon ; and when 
 night settled down on Lavenham, a night of splendour, 
 the outline of every object was clear as at noonday. The 
 streets are mostly built on steep inclines. The centre of 
 the town lies in a hollow, at the juncture of High Street 
 and Hall Road, and in the lapse of time the houses have 
 not only climbed to the hill-tops but have scattered 
 themselves along the descending sides. Thus, from the 
 High Street you descend to the railway station on one 
 side and to Hall Road on the other, and, from the old 
 Market Cross, Barn Street slopes steeply towards Water 
 Street and the Priory — now a farmhouse, once the home of 
 the Copingers, of whom more anon. I loitered in this 
 street to enjoy the moonlight, which gilded the many 
 old houses still left to teach the architecture of the past 
 and to interest us with their carved figure-heads and 
 beams, curious gables, or embossed fleur-de-lis and 
 crown ; of the latter I noticed a well-preserved example 
 on one side of the Swan Hotel, and had previously seen 
 
160 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 another elsewhere. I reached one end of Water Street 
 only to retrace my steps, and the other end only to reverse 
 the process ; hardly noticing the quarters as they spoke 
 from the church tower and exchanging no word with my 
 companion. I would fain write of that companion as 
 cleverly as William Black once wrote of his ; but it is safer 
 to quote his words than to rival them : 
 
 Too proud to give me perjured praise 
 He hearkens as we onward tend, 
 
 And ne’er disputes a doubtful phrase, 
 
 Nor says he cannot comprehend. 
 
 Might God such critics always send ! 
 
 He turns not to the left or right, 
 
 But patient follows to the end — 
 
 My shadow on a moonlight night. 
 
 The moonlight, and those chimes from the church 
 tower, conspired to rob me of sleep. Without fore- 
 thought, I had chosen an inn near the church, and can 
 only hope that others doing likewise may pass the watches 
 of the night less wakefully. Canon Scott, in his booklet 
 on Lavenham, says that on the 21st of each June the 
 peal of eight fine bells is rung “ for the largest part of the 
 day,” and adds that the inhabitants of the Rectory then 
 wish themselves “ further away from the church.” I 
 can sympathise with that wish. In vain I had recourse 
 to ancient recipes for sleep ; in vain I counted slowly ; in 
 vain I repeated Mr. Lang’s beautiful “ Ballade of Sleep ” 
 as an invocation. I asked, with the poet, “ Wilt thou not 
 hear me, Sleep ? ” But sleep would not hear, and I could 
 only repeat : 
 
 The hours are passing slow, 
 
 I hear their weary tread 
 Clang from the tower, and go 
 Back to their kinsfolk dead. 
 
LAVENHAM 
 
 161 
 
 The beauty of the verses was small consolation for 
 the lack of repose. Montaigne, who had searched his 
 library for anecdotes “ of sleeping ” would have condoled 
 with me in some measure, for he knew the horrors of its 
 absence. 
 
 At breakfast, turning Canon Scott’s pages, I was in- 
 terested to find that the tenor in Lavenham tower is of 
 rare excellence. It weighs twenty-three hundredweight, 
 and bears the words “ Miles Graye made me, 1625.” 
 Lavenham folk may be unaware that Miles Graye was 
 a famous bell-founder of Colchester, whose bells hang in 
 many a tower in East Anglia and elsewhere : six at 
 Feering and five at North Ockenden came from his 
 foundry. His fame, it would seem, excited envy in the 
 breast of other bell-founders. Mr. Dutt, in his “ Suffolk ” 
 copies an inscription on a bell at Wickham Market : 
 
 The monument of Graie, 
 
 Is passed awaie, 
 
 In place of it doth stand 
 
 The name of John Brand, 1657. 
 
 Lavenham is proud of its church. It is politic, when 
 visiting the town, to say little concerning the merits of 
 that at Long Melford, lest you become involved in argu- 
 ment, and have to compare the two structures piecemeal 
 — tower with tower, nave with nave, aisle with aisle, 
 arch with arch. I promise the ground will be disputed 
 inch by inch. This, on a close inspection of Lavenham 
 Church, will not surprise you. It is yet another of those 
 splendid sanctuaries, largely Perpendicular, for which 
 Suffolk is famous. Approximately, its exterior length is 
 equal to that at Long Melford, irrespective of the Lady 
 
1 62 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 Chapel attached to the latter ; and there are points of 
 resemblance between the external appearance of both 
 churches, so far as concerns clerestory and aisles. But 
 the tower at Lavenham, buttressed to the summit, is the 
 commanding feature. Lofty as it is (141 feet), we are 
 told that it would have been loftier but for an accident ; 
 the architect fell from that great height, and his death 
 deterred others from carrying the work further. There 
 is evidence of the truth of this, for, as Canon Scott 
 points out, the coats-of-arms on its exterior “ come so 
 exactly to the very top as to suggest that at least a few 
 feet more were meant to be added.” Here again, as at 
 Belchamp Walter, we meet the cognisance of the De 
 Veres, one of whom was associated with Thomas Spring 
 in the erection of the present church. Below each 
 window of the tower, the star-like mullet of the De Veres 
 is inserted in the flintwork ; as also in the battlements 
 of aisles and clerestory ; their shields are displayed in 
 the south porch. They owned the manor for five 
 centuries, from the Conqueror to Elizabeth. 
 
 Thomas Spring was a clothier of Lavenham. His 
 name is writ large in this grand old church for which he 
 laboured, particularly in the Spring Chapel. Other 
 members of his family are remembered here ; their 
 names are graven in brass, on the wall of nave and vestry ; 
 but the name of Thomas Spring the younger is most 
 closely associated with the church and tower. The 
 chapel, built in 1525, is on the south side of the chancel; 
 its exterior — buttress, windows and battlements — har- 
 monise with the exterior of the south aisle. The Spring 
 arms are in the spandrels of the door ; the family pew is 
 still shown at the east end of the north aisle. Spring 
 
LAVENHAM 163 
 
 recorded his wish to lie in a tomb before St. Katherine’s 
 altar in this church. Tomb and altar are alike gone ; 
 but the spot is thought to be identical with the site of 
 the pew, where the existing screenwork, of Renaissance, 
 perhaps Flemish, workmanship, may mark the parclose. 
 
 A brass near the north door, to the memory of Allayne 
 Dister, who died in 1534, is so curiously inscribed that 
 I was glad to find time to copy it before matins : 
 
 Contynuall prayse these lynes in brasse 
 Of Allayne Dister here, 
 
 A clothier vertuous while he was 
 In Lavenham many a yeare, 
 
 For as in lyfe he loved best 
 The poore to clothe and feede, 
 
 So withe the riche and all the rest 
 He neighbourlie agreed, 
 
 And did appoint before he died 
 A spial yearlie rent 
 Which shoulde be every Whitsontide 
 Among the poorest spent. 
 
 On the brass is graven the figures of Allayne Dister and his 
 family ; a scroll, issuing from his mouth, is inscribed with 
 the words “ In manus Tuas, Domine, concedo animum 
 meum.” The modern spelling of the word Lavenham 
 on so old a brass is remarkable, for during intervening 
 periods the word was written far differently ; Foxe spells 
 it Lanham ; Defoe, Lenham. Like the name of Weller, 
 its orthography evidently varied with the taste of the 
 speller. 
 
 Five persons, including the clergy, heard matins that 
 morning. To my sorrow, I was seated near the chancel, 
 so was unable to contemplate the grandeur of the nave 
 arcade of six bays, considered the most finely proportioned 
 
164 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 in Suffolk. The pier-shafts, supporting gracefully 
 moulded arches, have elaborately floriated Tudor capi- 
 tals ; whilst the spandrels between arch and arch are 
 adorned with carved panelling. Each bay of the cleres- 
 tory has two three-light windows ; these, once wholly 
 filled with stained glass, are now mostly colourless, and 
 consequently, as Canon Scott justly remarks, the nave 
 is even too well lighted. The roofs of aisles and nave, 
 similar in design, are thought to be of chestnut-wood, 
 but are not so elaborately wrought as to evoke admiration 
 in so fine a church. Monuments are few ; one, on the 
 north wall of the chancel, is to the younger of two 
 Copingers who were successively rectors of Lavenham. 
 Its general design is commonplace : rector and wife 
 kneel face to face, engaged in prayer ; beneath are their 
 children, eleven in all, with skulls in their hands. This 
 Copinger, who died in 1622, is mentioned in Fuller’s 
 “ Church History,” in that quaint phraseology which we 
 enjoy whenever we open his pages. He tells us that 
 Copinger was for forty-five years the “ painful parson ” 
 here at Lavenham ; that he was skilful in adjusting 
 differences among his communicants ; and that he had 
 plenty of money, which he freely distributed. The 
 word “ painful ” is open to the charge of ambiguity. 
 Fuller probably meant his readers to know that Copinger 
 was industrious in the discharge of duty ; but it may 
 be suggested that Copinger’s hearers, as Spurgeon once 
 said in a different connection, suffered the word of 
 exhortation in more senses than one. 
 
 Copinger was succeeded by another rector of the same 
 family, at whose death, in 1644, Sir Simonds D’Ewes, 
 then patron of the church, conferred the advowson upon 
 
LAVENHAM 
 
 165 
 
 William Gurnall, whose name is more widely known 
 than that of any other Rector of Lavenham. Many 
 thousands of readers are familiar with the title, at least, 
 of a book published in 1843. It is “ A Collection of 
 Rare Jewels. From the Mines of William Gurnall. 
 Dug up and deposited in a casket by Arthur Augustine 
 Rees.” The book is extracted from Gurnall’s more 
 voluminous work “ The Christian in Complete Armour,” 
 which he put forth, in three volumes, between 1655 and 
 1662 ; and of which several editions were promptly sold. 
 There were giants of exposition in the land in those 
 days. The whole of Gurnall’s work, based on a series of 
 sermons, is concerned with the last few verses of the 
 Epistle to the Ephesians ; its title — as Macaulay says of 
 the title of Nares’s “ Burghley ” — “ is as long as an 
 ordinary preface ” ; it describes the work as “ A Treatise 
 of the Saint’s War against the Devil ; wherein a dis- 
 covery is made of that grand enemy of God and his 
 people, in his policies, power, seat of his empire, wicked- 
 ness, and chief designs he hath against the saints,” c. 
 Gurnall was a Puritan, and expressed the theology of 
 his day ; but he is far more interesting than many of 
 his contemporaries. Spurgeon, no mean judge of such 
 writings, considered Gurnall eminently suitable for 
 quotation ; “ he is sententious,” he once wrote, “ and 
 withall pictorial, and both in a high degree.” I think 
 this work must have been known to Bunyan ; it possibly 
 suggested passages in the “ Pilgrim’s Progress,” first 
 published several years after the last of Gurnall’s volumes. 
 Gurnall had been sometime “ minister ” at Sudbury 
 before his removal to Lavenham, as he mentions in a 
 letter ; but his early ministerial life is little known, nor 
 
1 66 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 does it concern me here. Rector in troubled days, he 
 contrived to avoid open rupture with his superiors in 
 Church and Parliament by a shrewd compromise. He 
 preached and visited, but would not wear the surplice — 
 “ the ghost of a linen decency ” as Milton called it in 
 the year of Gurnall’s institution — so the reading of 
 prayers was wholly performed by his curate. This, 
 however, must have been in his latter days, when the 
 surplice was reintroduced. 
 
 Gurnall died in October, 1679, an< ^ was buried at 
 Lavenham ; but no monument to him is known in 
 the church or town. His books, and the books of 
 others, have kept his memory green. An edition of 
 “ The Christian in Complete Armour ” was published, 
 in two octavos, by Dove, the well-known publisher in 
 St. John’s Square. An “ Inquiry ” into the facts of 
 Gurnall’s life, by H. M’Keon, appeared at Woodbridge in 
 1830, and the late Bishop Ryle prefaced his edition of 
 this savoury old Puritan’s work with an interesting 
 narrative. 
 
 The name of Sir Simonds D’Ewes, whose gift of the 
 living to Gurnall was “ much to the benefit of the town 
 in many waies,” occurs frequently in the story of Laven- 
 ham. Like Constable, he was sent awhile to the old 
 Grammar School in Lady Street, now used as a factory 
 for the weaving of horse-hair. Sir Simonds’ account of 
 the death of his first-born son is very touching ; it is in 
 the second volume of the “ Autobiography and Corre- 
 spondence.” The child was baptized in the church here by 
 the rector, Ambrose Copinger, in the presence of members 
 of the Clopton family, relatives of his mother. A fort- 
 night later the child died. “ I attended him fasting the 
 
LAVENHAM 
 
 167 
 
 greatest part of the day,” the father records, “ and when 
 he had given up the ghost my dearest and myself could 
 not refrain from many tears, sighs, and mournings.” 
 And so the “ chrisom child ” was laid in a “ little, little 
 grave ” in the chancel of Lavenham Church. There, a 
 brass in the floor near the altar-rails represents the infant 
 in his chrisom robe, in which he was probably buried. 
 The inscription is in Latin. 
 
 One of D’Ewes’s predecessors in the High Sheriffdom of 
 Suffolk was Sir William Spring, who lived at Lavenham 
 in the days of Elizabeth — those “ spacious days ” in 
 which men lived and moved to such excellent purpose. 
 In 1578 Elizabeth visited Lavenham during a Royal 
 Progress, as she visited Bures and Long Melford, and was 
 entertained here by the High Sheriff. From a tract in 
 the British Museum, penned by that adventurous soldier 
 and poet, Thomas Churchyard, we learn how brilliant 
 a cavalcade met and escorted the Queen on this occasion, 
 “ a comely troupe and a noble sight to beholde.” So 
 anxious were the men of Suffolk for the honour of their 
 county that, as Churchyard records, they bought all the 
 silks and velvets they could procure, in order to convert 
 them into fine clothing ; among other features he 
 mentions “ two hundred young gentlemen cladde all in 
 white velvet coates.” 
 
 The cottagers near the churchyard gate had dined ere 
 I passed their open doors on my way from the church. 
 We exchanged a cheery time o’ day, and I think they 
 were pleased when I turned for a last look at their mag- 
 nificent tower. Like all structures of perfect balance 
 and proportion, it seemed to expand as I contemplated 
 it ; I could almost have supposed it loftier than on the 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 1 68 
 
 previous evening. But time pressed, and I prepared to 
 quit its precincts, perhaps for ever. I was sorry to 
 leave the town. I presently found myself before the 
 old Guildhall, long the hall of the Guild of Corpus 
 Christi, and the meeting-place of the clothiers of Laven- 
 ham. It is a timber-framed house, fairly preserved ; 
 on the corner-post, a close scrutiny reveals a figure of its 
 founder, the fifteenth Earl of Oxford. The Hall, now 
 attached to the Primitive Methodist Chapel — a glaring 
 contrast in red — has foundation walls of rubble and brick, 
 bearing the heavy oaken timbers of the framework. It 
 was long a prison. Howard, who visited the town in 
 1784, wrote of it as Lavenham Bride-well, recording its 
 insanitary and insecure condition and its lack of straw 
 and water. 
 
 My way towards the little river Brett led me down 
 Shilling Street. Here, on the left-hand side, stands a 
 “ double-house,” of plain aspect, but interesting for its 
 literary associations. In 1786, one Isaac Taylor removed 
 from Red Lion Street in London and fixed his home in 
 Lavenham, renting this residence in Shilling Street for 
 six pounds per annum — a fact which should interest its 
 present inmate. He is remembered here for his “ Speci- 
 mens of Gothic Ornament selected from the Parish 
 Church of Lavenham in Suffolk,” a quarto published in 
 London in 179 6. Here, too, he commenced his well- 
 known series of engravings for Boydell’s “ Shakespeare,” 
 once so often thumbed. He was ardent in all matters 
 touching the education of his children, as was also his 
 wife, and their labours bore excellent fruit. Two of 
 their daughters, Ann and Jane, were the chief authors 
 of “ Original Poems for Infant Minds by Several Young 
 
LAVENHAM 
 
 169 
 
 Persons,” by which they received fifteen pounds and a 
 deal of fame. The family subsequently settled at Ongar, 
 where Isaac Taylor was for some time Congregational 
 minister ; there he died, as did also his daughter Jane ; 
 his memorial is in the church in which he taught. The 
 home, from those early days at Lavenham to the father’s 
 death in 1829, must have been conspicuous for the 
 industry of its inmates. Some of Taylor’s books were 
 familiar to all readers two generations back, but we 
 seldom meet them now when we search the book- 
 stalls in town. He wrote “ The Biography of a Brown 
 Loaf,” “ Picturesque Piety,” “ Bunyan explained to 
 a Child,” and much else ; but was destined to be 
 eclipsed by a yet more famous son. Since his death, 
 he has often been referred to as “ Taylor of 
 Ongar,” to distinguish him from the son who bore his 
 name. 
 
 Isaac Taylor the younger — whose likeness, in crayon, 
 is in the National Portrait Gallery — was born at Laven- 
 ham on August 17, 1787. His early studies in the arts 
 of drawing and engraving were not without benefit, but 
 it was as an author rather than an artist that he was 
 destined to make a name still honourably remembered. 
 He drew his own portrait and that of his sister Jane ; he 
 drew some pictures for Boydell’s “ Illustrations of Holy 
 Writ ” ; he translated Theophrastus’ “ Characters ” 
 and illustrated them with woodcuts from his own hand. 
 His life was one of quiet industry, devoted almost wholly 
 to religious and philosophic meditation and to the em- 
 bodying of its results in his many volumes. His days 
 were mostly passed in Essex. Removing from Laven- 
 ham, he lived successively at Colchester, at Ongar, and 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 170 
 
 at Stanford Rivers, a scattered parish beside the Roding, 
 where he settled in 1825. 
 
 The bent of Taylor’s mind was strongly influenced by 
 the perusal, in early life, of the works of Sulpitius Severus 
 and of Bacon’s “ De Augmentis.” The latter, we can well 
 believe, did much to widen his outlook and deepen his 
 seriousness. Its effect may undoubtedly be traced in 
 many passages from his pen — especially, perhaps, in his 
 volume on “ Fanaticism ” first published in 1833. Let 
 the reader judge : “ The habitude of positive pain, as 
 well as that of mere privation, brings its relief also ; for 
 there is a torpor, partly of the nerve, but chiefly of the 
 mind, which more and more blunts physical sensibility ; 
 and there is, too, an art learned in the school of chronic 
 suffering, which teaches so to shift the burden of anguish 
 as that it may not anywhere gall to the quick. More- 
 over, there is a power of abstraction from bodily sensa- 
 tions, called into exercise by long experience, and which 
 may at length, even while matter and mind continue 
 partners, almost set the conscious principle at large from 
 its sympathy with mere flesh nerve. Pain, at its first 
 onset, condenses the soul upon a point ; or brings the 
 whole of the sensitive faculty to the one centre of anguish ; 
 but the habit of pain loosens this concentration and 
 allows the mind a liberty of movement.”* Here is 
 closeness of reasoning and sententious expression largely 
 typical of an age that has passed away ; for what is in 
 some respects a contrast, an example of scientific accuracy 
 and lucidity of statement, we may turn to Huxley’s 
 “Hume.” Taylor’s methods are those of John Foster, 
 Robert Hall, and other clever men of his age — men whom 
 * “Fanaticism.” A new edition. Revised 1843. 
 
WM 
 
 The Glebe Farm. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
LAVENHAM 
 
 171 
 
 he knew and honoured and with whom he collaborated 
 in the Eclectic Review . That periodical, now seldom 
 alluded to, was edited by Josiah Conder from 1805 till 
 1834 > ran till 1868. It was mostly read by Dissenters, 
 whose views it chiefly voiced. 
 
 By writers to whom Taylor is a name only, he is 
 usually referred to as the author of “ The Natural 
 History of Enthusiasm.’ 5 First issued in 1829, the book 
 ran through many editions, and was one of few really 
 popular works on such topics. He wrote ably on “ Spiri- 
 tual Despotism,” and strongly against the Oxford Trac- 
 tarians. Unlike his father, he was a Churchman from 
 conviction, but one who failed to see that any advantage 
 could be derived from the attempt to remodel the 
 Church in conformity with its precepts and practices 
 when notoriously corrupt. In this respect, if in this 
 alone, Taylor had many points of resemblance to a once 
 more famous writer, Dr. Cumming, whose “ Lectures 
 for the Times,” exposing the errors of Romanism and 
 Tractarianism, appeared during Taylor’s busiest period 
 of authorship. 
 
 Between Isaac and Jane Taylor there were many ties of 
 affection. Not robust in health, Taylor visited Ilfra- 
 combe from time to time with his sister, whose “ Memoirs 
 and Correspondence ” he was afterwards to edit. Like 
 many authors, his life-story is, in the main, the story of 
 his books ; the lives of few English authors have been 
 more free from blemish. He died at Stanford Rivers 
 on June 28, 1865 ; the death of his learned descendant, 
 Canon Isaac Taylor, is still a very present sorrow to 
 many. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 “A CORNER IN ARCADY ” 
 
 The afternoon was waning as I passed out of Lavenham 
 and came into the open meadows beside the Brett. 
 Many cows were cropping the rich aftermath lazily, as 
 though appetite were appeased and they must perforce 
 graze for occupation rather than for nourishment. A 
 lark, whose 
 
 . . . sound went with the river as it ran 
 
 Out through the fresh and flourish’d lusty vale, 
 
 like the voice of the bird in Dunbar’s “ Merle and 
 Nightingale,” rose before me as I reached the waterside ; 
 I watched its spiral ascent so long as its tiny form was 
 distinguishable in the blue. Children, frolicking in a 
 spinney hard by, diverted my attention ; their voices 
 pursued me merrily as I followed the windings of that 
 erratic watercourse. Until it nears Hadleigh the Brett 
 can hardly be called a river — some, perhaps, would deem 
 it a small stream — but it wanders through very charming 
 country and traverses districts of truly bucolic rusticity. 
 Its banks are shaded by willows, like the banks of all 
 streams in Constable’s country ; the purple loose-strife 
 strikes root deeply in its sandy soil, and displays its flowers 
 so profusely as to be conspicuous from afar. Near 
 Lavenham, I found the narrow channel of the Brett — 
 
“A CORNER IN ARCADY ” 
 
 173 
 
 or rather, one of the “ three heads ” of that river — 
 almost waterless ; no rain had fallen upon the thirsty 
 land since I was in Sudbury, and tributary streamlets 
 were dry. But as I neared Brent Eleigh the water 
 swelled in volume until a coracle might have floated on 
 its bosom, or it might have served for some fairy regatta, 
 led by the state-barge of Titania. 
 
 If not in Fairyland, I was at least in Arcadia. We 
 find Arcadia, often enough, where we seek it. We 
 should know the land of our desires, and direct our steps 
 accordingly ; we should seek Arcadia where we may 
 reasonably expect to find it — far from the busier high- 
 ways of life, far from the frigid, flowerless territory of 
 discontent, often so desert-like and wide that he who 
 strays within its confines is like to perish. It is possible 
 to travel a thousand miles and be farther from Arcadia 
 than when we set out upon our search. Some are ever 
 seeking it, and never able to come to a knowledge of its 
 whereabouts. Each summer they renew the search, 
 wandering farther and farther from home ; forgetting, 
 we must suppose, that they leave behind them a land 
 
 Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 
 
 And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide ; 
 
 for if a man can find no Arcadia in England he will not 
 readily discover it elsewhere. Perhaps it is only to be 
 found by that small remnant who leave the town behind 
 them when they take the road. Mr. Arthur Grant 
 has found it in the green lanes and old-world villages of 
 Hertfordshire, the shire so warmly beloved by Walton 
 and Lamb, and I will vouch for the accuracy of the 
 location. Stevenson found it in widely parted lands, 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 174 
 
 because he carried the spirit and atmosphere of Arcadia 
 with him wherever he went ; Walton, that genial father 
 of a fine old school of Arcadians, found it wherever there 
 ran a stream wherein he might angle ; Lamb found it in 
 Hertfordshire because he was one of those who, as Steven- 
 son himself has said, ramble in search of “ certain jolly- 
 humours ” rather than of the picturesque. But there 
 are never lacking men like those rich ones in Keats’s 
 poem — men to whom 
 
 red-lined accounts 
 
 Are richer than the songs of Grecian years, 
 
 and how should such know where to seek Arcadia ? How 
 profoundly wretched they will be if they ever find it ! 
 
 I have reached a quiet country, almost within sight of 
 the village of Brent Eleigh ; it is as surely Arcadian as 
 any country I know. The fall of the hammer on the 
 blacksmith’s anvil comes faintly to the ear, for the forge 
 is far away and many intervening trees impede the undu- 
 lating air. A child from the village has wandered thus 
 far to wade in the cool stream. Unconscious of my 
 presence, missie has removed shoes and stockings in a 
 trice, and has waded from side to side with obvious 
 relish, not, I take it, wholly unmixed with fear of impend- 
 ing chastisement should discovery ensue. She is not the 
 least pleasing feature of the scene. For the rest, there 
 is almost utter silence — the silence of early evening 
 in the neighbourhood of water that creeps rather than 
 runs ; before any voice is heard calling the cows from 
 the pasture ; before the swifts come abroad for their 
 last flight, always the noisiest of the day ; before the 
 beetles wheel hither and thither, whirring or humming 
 
“A CORNER IN ARCADY ” 
 
 r 7S 
 
 as they go, sometimes bumping against you with sur- 
 prising violence ; before the rooks caw crisply as they 
 gather to their resting-places in the high elms. No 
 time of day is more quiet than those moments when we 
 realise that another afternoon has “ dropped in the 
 shadowy gulf of bygone things,” yet hesitate to say that 
 evening has fallen once again. But the earth is never 
 wholly silent ; always some insect is on the wing ; some 
 bird is restless in a neighbouring coppice, or even the 
 gentlest rain makes audible patter among a million 
 leaves. When we meet perfect silence it will be in that 
 land where there is perfect rest. 
 
 The little wader comes ashore ere long ; shoes and 
 stockings are again pulled on, and missie trots lightly 
 over the bridge and into the shadow of a beech that 
 towers beside this tributary of the Brett. The sun is 
 almost on the horizon, and the whole heaven is lit with 
 those wondrous hues which so many have striven to paint 
 and so few have faithfully painted. As there is no silence 
 near the earth, so there is no permanence of form or hue 
 in the sky above. The last hour has shown colours in 
 cloudland of infinite gradations in tone and tint, from 
 brightest gold to deepest purple, and even in the higher 
 cirrus the configuration of each outer fringe is transformed 
 as I watch it. The sinking sun seems to spin around with 
 increasing velocity until, at the last, it drops so suddenly 
 beneath the verge of the horizon as to leave me pondering 
 the precise cause of the optical delusion. 
 
 It is time to pass on. I linger awhile on the bridge, in 
 no mood to hasten from such sylvan solitude. There is 
 wind enough to stir the leaves of this fine beech to music ; 
 and light sufficient to show the winding road that leads 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 176 
 
 me to Brent Eleigh. The neighbourhood, like others 
 far less lovely, has its tragic memories. Somewhere 
 between Lavenham and Brent Eleigh — I believe the 
 exact spot is unknown — James Spring, who figures in 
 effigy on the family brass in Lavenham Church, was slain 
 in a fight in 1493. A little to the south-west lies Wash- 
 more Green, where grim sport was witnessed in those 
 far-off, barbarous days so foolishly lauded by ignorant 
 folk. For when the pastime of bull-baiting was — after 
 much opposition — ousted from Lavenham by James 
 Buck, the rector of the town, the “ sport ” was con- 
 tinued at Washmore Green, where crowds composed 
 of all classes, on foot or on horseback, watched the bull 
 being literally torn to pieces by dogs trained for that 
 purpose. This bull-baiting was practised until about 
 seventy years ago, when it was very properly abolished 
 by the local magistrates. 
 
 Early in the morning I go in quest of a curious relic. 
 But, dilatory rambler that I am, I follow a circuitous 
 course to the churchyard, whither I am bound. Walls, 
 blues, small tortoiseshells and meadow browns flit among 
 the hawkweed and poppies by the roadside ; blue scabious 
 and yellow agrimony, valerian and willow-herb are 
 plentiful in this valley-like depression into which I have 
 strayed, and I am tempted to arrange a posy by the 
 river’s bank, to send to folk at home. I was startled 
 just now by a merry laugh. A boy came out from a 
 cottage doorway to fetch water from the stream, and 
 following his glance I saw the cause of his mirth. It 
 was a family removal — such a removal as we look for in 
 Arcadia. A van had been piled with goods and chattels ; 
 the family, young and old, had contrived to dispose 
 
“A CORNER IN ARCADY ” 
 
 1 77 
 
 themselves among the furniture with commendable 
 ingenuity. One stout horse drew this dead and living 
 load with apparent ease, and the high spirits of the party 
 were undeniable. Well, they may perhaps find a new 
 home in a less pleasant district ; circumstances may go 
 hard with each ere they are much older ; presently, too, 
 there will be the inevitable vacant chair. I wished them 
 a good morning as they passed, which they cheerily 
 returned. Perhaps I should rather have wished them 
 God-speed, and the best of fortune’s favours in the land 
 whither they were bound. 
 
 The curious relic which I mentioned is none other 
 than a wayside library. In the quaint little church, on 
 the northern side of Brent Eleigh, is a monument to 
 Edward Coleman, who died in 1737, and bequeathed to 
 the parish some fifteen hundred volumes. These were 
 long kept in the church, but are now in a small building 
 near the churchyard gate. This library is rich in works 
 by classic and revered names ; but many are in a dilapi- 
 dated condition. Some have been acquired by the 
 British Museum ; those that remain show how valuable 
 the collection is even now. Many are ponderous tomes, 
 and I smile as I think of Lamb, who could only read 
 Beaumont and Fletcher “ in folio,” and ask myself, as I 
 glance over the titles of these books, how many of their 
 “ crabbed old authors ” were beloved by Elia and how 
 many he would have classed as “ books which are no 
 books — biblia a-biblia .” Here is an author of local 
 
 interest ; Tillotson, in three volumes folio, must have 
 reminded many that their broad-minded author was 
 once, for a brief while, rector of Kedington, a few miles 
 to the west. This edition of his works was not published 
 
 M 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 178 
 
 till long after his death ; it is worthy of note that for 
 the sermons alone the publisher paid 2500 guineas to 
 Tillotson’s widow. Here, too, is Bishop Reynolds ; 
 here is Cave’s “ Fathers,” here his “ Bibliotheca Eccle- 
 siastical’ Here is Augustine — a row of folios in sorry 
 guise ; here Cyril of Alexandria ; here Ray’s “ Historia 
 Plantarum ” ; here Brady’s “ Introduction to History ” ; 
 and here an Erasmus, in eleven folios, is at least a noble 
 monument to a greatly honoured name. Actually, as 
 figuratively, the dust has fallen deeply upon these volumes 
 of late ; but they are interesting to the present vicar, and 
 I may one day see them more worthily classified and 
 housed. There are two somewhat similar collections of 
 books within a few miles of Brent Eleigh — both, like the 
 Coleman Library here, bequeathed by divines of repute 
 to their respective parishes. The Plume Library at 
 Maldon and the Harsnett Library at Colchester contain 
 many of the same authors as are found in this collection 
 at Brent Eleigh. Some of the editions before me are 
 now rare, and are worthy of all that may be done to 
 preserve them for the use of future generations. But 
 will those generations use them ? The vicar’s wife — 
 who with great kindness permits me to rummage at will 
 among these old fellows in leather — shares my scepticism 
 on this point, and thinks it doubtful whether any one of 
 these books will rival a halfpenny newspaper in the eyes 
 of the rising generation. 
 
 The Coleman Library did not interest the soldier on 
 furlough at the inn. But he shared my admiration for 
 the country hereabouts, and wished, now that his marches 
 and battles are for the most part over, to “ settle down ” 
 and ruralise at Brent Eleigh. Ah ! if only he had stuck 
 
“A CORNER IN ARC AD Y ” 
 
 179 
 
 to the land as a lad ! He might have known a far happier, 
 if a quieter life — he might, he thought, have grown 
 to the spot and passed his last days in his own cottage 
 with his family around him. As it is, he fought for old 
 England in Afghanistan, and knows a few things about 
 that country which would look fine in the reading, if he 
 could but set them down. He owned that warfare has 
 its compensations for the few who emerge from it 
 morally and physically unscathed, and for the still fewer 
 who win promotion. Two possibilities in a soldier’s 
 career he regarded as mere haphazard, like the spinning 
 of a coin. You may receive a wound, which you carry to 
 your grave, the first time you look into the enemy’s eyes 
 over crossed swords ; or you may get no scratch in ten 
 encounters ; and similarly, you may win a medal and 
 an immortality of repute when first you remove a wounded 
 brother under fire, or you may do it more times than you 
 care to remember, and your name shall never be men- 
 tioned in a despatch. Soldiering, like life generally, is 
 all a lottery. A man’s promotions are no measure of his 
 merits. This he illustrated by a line from Dryden, 
 arguing that although none but the brave deserve the 
 fair, many a timid man has wed a fair lady, and has 
 preserved his timidity to the end. 
 
 I listened to the soldier’s philosophy until he waxed 
 proverbial as Martin Tupper, when I bade him good 
 morning and walked briskly to the meeting of the ways 
 from Preston and Monk’s Eleigh. Here stretches a fine 
 prospect over the leafy valley of the Brett ; and more 
 directly westward the landscape swells upwards until, 
 on the not very distant horizon, the tower of Lavenham 
 Church, at once statuesque and columnar, stands clearly 
 
180 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 relieved against the blue sky. The sky is indeed so 
 blue, the clouds that fleck it so white, and the air so crisp 
 and exhilarating that I feel little disposed to hasten down 
 into Monk’s Eleigh, whither I am bound. Moreover, 
 there are reapers among the wheat in a neighbouring 
 field, and the gradual diminution of the standing corn 
 has deprived some rabbits of their hiding-places. To 
 remain among the wheat is to be mown down with the 
 straw, to run from cover is to be shot by the ready 
 rifles. The St. Bartholomew of rabbits has come, as it 
 comes each year at reaping-time, and as I rest beneath 
 a high hedge — looking, from time to time, to where 
 Monk’s Eleigh Church peeps above the trees in the 
 valley below — I watch the passing of several rabbits from 
 life to death. Here was a comment on the soldier’s talk ; 
 for nowhere is life more uncertain, or its rewards more 
 problematical, than among the denizens of hedgerow 
 and field. 
 
 I have heard two strange, fragmentary yarns concerning 
 Monk’s Eleigh ; but have no notion as to whether they are 
 anywhere substantially recorded in print. One I heard 
 by the roadside, and will repeat it first. Many years ago, 
 a lady, straying in fields near the village, went farther 
 than she intended, and night came down ere she at- 
 tempted to retrace her steps. When, at length, she 
 sought the point from which she had set out, she found 
 she had lost her way ; no soul was abroad ; scarcely 
 a sound reached her ears to tell where, in the darkness, 
 Monk’s Eleigh lay, and the lady saw every prospect of 
 being benighted in the open country, with no bed save 
 the ground, and no roof save the shelter of hedge or tree. 
 She was, as the old novelists used to say, “ about to 
 
“ A CORNER IN ARCADY ” 
 
 181 
 
 abandon herself to all the horrors of despair,’’ when she 
 heard the sound of a far-off bell. Thinking it was 
 probably the sound of a bell in Monk’s Eleigh Church 
 tower, she followed its leading, and presently, after 
 sundry divagations into wrong footpaths, she came out 
 into the open road, and recognised a cottage not far 
 from the village. Grateful for deliverance from at 
 least an unpleasant predicament, and sensible of the 
 part played by the bell in her escape, she bequeathed an 
 annual sum to keep in repair the clock in Monk’s Eleigh 
 Church ; and the bell that tops the angle-turret, which 
 you may see from a long distance, is a witness to the truth 
 of the story. This, I doubt not, is in the main a pretty 
 piece of fiction and no mean tribute to the fertility of 
 rustic invention. I repeat the story as it was told to 
 me by an ancient native, almost under the shadow of the 
 lime-trees which skirt the churchyard, and those who 
 know the authentic version will perhaps thank me for 
 having placed on record so fantastic a variation on the 
 original theme. 
 
 The other story was referred to in brief by Mr. Vincent 
 Redstone, in a paper read before the Royal Historical 
 Society in 1902. It takes us back to the fifteenth century, 
 and illustrates the difficulties encountered by those called 
 upon to enforce the law in days when culprits relied as 
 much upon might as upon diplomacy. It appears that 
 one Richard Talbot of Monk’s Eleigh had obtained a 
 writ of subpoena against a widow at Bildeston, named 
 Agnes Motte. The difficulty of serving such a writ 
 was often great, and Talbot entrusted the task to his son, 
 who set out for Bildeston accompanied by another. The 
 writ was apparently delivered ; but troubles were ahead. 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 182 
 
 Dame Motte, incensed by the proceeding, roused her 
 neighbours, who flocked together to the rescue, and 
 young Talbot and his companion were roughly handled. 
 The Bildeston folk confronted the pair with drawn 
 weapons, and Talbot narrowly escaped with his life. 
 The sequel has its ludicrous side. Anxious, perhaps, 
 to avoid the consequences of actual bloodshed, the little 
 mob compelled the two men to kneel down, and in 
 that posture to devour the entire writ, both wax and 
 parchment. 
 
 I was still in Arcadia when I reached Monk’s Eleigh. 
 Figuratively speaking, the village is falling into decay; 
 Goldsmith, could he visit it now, would surely lament its 
 decline in tender couplets. Some forty years ago, I 
 was told, “ Monks Illey ” contained about seven hundred 
 souls ; it now numbers two hundred less. After skirting 
 the church on its western side the road opens out near 
 the village pump. Here, before the old Swan Inn, the 
 stocks were till recently preserved ; many a parishioner 
 doubtless felt their clutches because he had behaved 
 improperly in the church hard by, or had brawled o’ 
 nights, or beaten the constable, or otherwise demonstrated 
 that he was a man of spirit. In those days a tall spire 
 surmounted the church tower ; this was removed some 
 fifty years ago ; but the Early English font, once richly 
 coloured, and a pulpit, carved four centuries back, still 
 remain to testify how ancient is the church when com- 
 pared with other structures in the parish. Go where we 
 will among our older English villages, we may safely 
 hazard two guesses. We may take it that the oldest inn 
 is twice the age of the most ancient cottage in its vicinity, 
 and that the parish church is twice as old again. The 
 
“A CORNER IN ARCADY ” 
 
 183 
 
 most frequent exception is where we find the church so 
 old that no neighbouring building is one quarter its 
 age. 
 
 Monk’s Eleigh lies in a hollow nook ; it somehow 
 reminded me of Aldbury, in the west of Hertfordshire — 
 perhaps because its open space is roughly triangular, and 
 because, moreover, from the centre of both villages I 
 have looked upwards to the higher corn-country, yellow 
 in the August sunshine and dotted with the figures of 
 reapers about to lay the harvest low. I confess, how- 
 ever, with becoming shamefacedness, that I waxed un- 
 conscionably lazy in Arcadian Suffolk ; the mere senses 
 of observation were enjoyed to the full, but I became 
 too dilatory to scribble copiously by the wayside. At the 
 inn, also, I idled sadly. I found comfortable refuge 
 from the heat of the open road when I turned into a small 
 hostel at the south-east extremity of the village ; and 
 could pen a eulogistic, if faulty sonnet, on the excellence 
 of the ale which was set before me on a tiny salver. The 
 room was hung with interesting prints ; and other 
 curios were obviously placed to take the eye to the best 
 advantage. There was, I remember, a large engraving 
 of Charles James Fox with his hand on a portfolio, and 
 his features — so suggestive of high living — set in a vacuous 
 stare which by no means did justice to that fervid orator. 
 There was, too, a picture of Charles II. landing on the 
 beach at Dover, etched by William Woollett, “ historical 
 engraver to His Majesty ” ; and a framed miracle in 
 woolwork, so complex in texture and design as to speak 
 volumes for the worker’s perseverance in the accomplish- 
 ment of trivialities. I do not care to own how long I 
 stayed in that parlour, turning appreciatively from 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 184 
 
 print to print, or stretched at ease in an arm-chair which 
 Cowper might have envied or the once-famous Eliza 
 Cook might have praised in galloping stanzas. Why do 
 such moments pass so quickly ? Why cannot we sit 
 thus for ever, watching young and old as they come and 
 go about their business or listening to the interchange of 
 talk between patriarchs who bemoan the times over 
 their ale as evening lengthens ? So, at least, we think as 
 we linger over a cigar after lunch or turn in here awhile 
 to rest after a hot ramble. But rest and refreshment 
 lead at length to fresh energy, and ere the long hand on 
 the grandfather’s clock has completed its circle we bestir 
 ourselves again and sally forth in quest of further ex- 
 periences, regarding the hour that is past as a chapter 
 read and known, and therefore of less interest than that 
 which is to come. The best of adventures, like the 
 morrow, lie always in the immediate future. 
 
 Between Monk’s Eleigh and Chelsworth is the meeting- 
 place of three feeders of the Stour. Here two small 
 tributaries join the Brett, and the three streams flow as 
 one towards Hadleigh and thence hasten more quickly 
 to empty themselves in the Stour near Higham. Chels- 
 worth — where every rambler loses time on the ivy- 
 mantled brick bridge of (I think) five spans, at the spot 
 where those waters meet — is an old-world village full 
 of charming nooks, and I advise readers to shun it if, 
 like most folk, they are in haste to be elsewhere. The 
 antiquarian will seek the church, where, beneath a 
 triangular canopy, and between two decorated windows 
 and two piscinae, is the deeply recessed monument to 
 Sir John de St. Philibert, who was lord of the manor 
 five and a half centuries ago, but concerning whom 
 
“A CORNER IN ARC AD Y” 185 
 
 history has little to tell us. The monument itself is 
 curiously situated, being so placed that a projection is 
 made beyond the outer side of the aisle in which it 
 stands. Is there an old legend in the village, such as 
 we heard at Bures, to tell us that Sir John was buried 
 thus in order that he might lie neither outside nor inside 
 of the church ? 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 HADLEIGH 
 
 Dr* J. M. Barrie, with even more than his wonted 
 humour, once refused to divulge his tobacconist’s ad- 
 dress. “ You ma y not,” he wrote, “ be worthy to smoke 
 the Arcadia Mixture.” I had recently read “ My Lady 
 Nicotine,” and this pleasantry came to mind with 
 ludicrous, if far-fetched, application as I stood on Gallow’s 
 Hill, and looked down upon Hadleigh that sprawled across 
 the valley below, bathed in sunshine despite some clouds 
 that threatened rain before night. For (I write with 
 becoming seriousness) neither you, the reader, nor I, 
 “ the present humble scribe ” as Grant Allen puts it, 
 may be worthy to loiter in the ancient streets of Had- 
 leigh, much less to intrude in its holy places. On occa- 
 sion, a tourist may swagger here and there in this “ royal 
 town,” ignorant, we will suppose, of its claims to distinc- 
 tion ; and may chatter nonsense in the church with 
 superlative effrontery, as I have known such do elsewhere. 
 But humbler folk, solicitous for a little knowledge rather 
 than for much self-assertion, will remember that “ fools 
 rush in where angels fear to tread.” 
 
 Hadleigh is holy ground. The King, the martyr, 
 the dramatist, the ecclesiastic, the essayist, the Puritan, 
 the Ritualist, are all remembered here. Here, indeed, 
 we feel the truth of Carlyle’s contention that history is, 
 
HADLEIGH 
 
 187 
 
 in the main, biography — take the human element from 
 history and what is left ? A long line of rectors, curates, 
 and lay residents of Hadleigh are honorably remembered 
 in literary or ecclesiastical history. Some were born in 
 the town ; some, born elsewhere, came here to labour 
 awhile and were presently removed to higher spheres of 
 usefulness ; others, after gaining distinction, brought 
 great reputations with them to Hadleigh, and were 
 destined to find a resting-place in the church or church- 
 yard. It would, I think, be difficult to name any town 
 in England, equally small, associated with so many 
 celebrated men. The lives of Hadleigh worthies would 
 fill several large volumes, and should be interesting 
 reading if obvious trivialities were left in the inkpot. 
 But such a series is likely to remain unwritten. We may 
 not be worthy to write “ The Worthies of Hadleigh.” 
 Let us leave even their names to be recalled to-morrow. 
 I had been many hours on foot ere I caught sight of the 
 windmill on the hillside overlooking the town, and had 
 strayed so erratically after leaving Monk’s Eleigh that 
 I was glad to linger at the tea-table, where even Kelly’s 
 “ Suffolk ” provided entertaining reading, and the waitress 
 owned a face and figure that deserved a second glance. 
 My way into the town had led me over the little bridge 
 that spans the Brett, past the Angel Inn, and near the 
 old Place Farm, believed to stand close to the site of a 
 nunnery, if only because an adjacent thoroughfare was 
 long called Lady Lane. From the bridge, the main 
 street of Hadleigh stretches from end to end of the town, 
 only a portion bearing the orthodox name of High 
 Street. Hadleigh, like so many towns of mellow age, 
 presents a curious frontage to the eye as you walk its 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 1 88 
 
 streets ; its tenements are reminiscent of perhaps every 
 decade from Elizabeth to Victoria. From a local guide, 
 which I consulted at the inn, I extract the following : 
 “ Even now, there are many private houses of much 
 interest in the town, built chiefly of timber, with the 
 interstices filled up with wattle-work and plaster, and 
 bearing traces of the sixteenth, fifteenth, and probably 
 also of the fourteenth centuries ; and several, as might 
 be expected, are of the seventeenth century, having 
 carved wooden corbels supporting windows, or the wide 
 eaves characteristic of the period. The fronts of many 
 of the houses are pargetted — that is, are covered with 
 plaster, ornamented with raised patterns, the favourite 
 devices being the Tudor rose and the royal arms sup- 
 ported by a lion and a unicorn, which mark the period 
 during which this mode of ornamentation prevailed, 
 the reigns of Queen Elizabeth and James I.” 
 
 I wish I could describe, as fully as it deserves, the inn 
 where I passed several pleasant hours at Hadleigh. Like 
 many in which I have slept in other counties, it was far 
 larger than its exterior led me to suppose. On the 
 ground floor, and in the forefront of the building, the 
 passage and a side parlour seemed to monopolise the 
 available space ; but the out-buildings extended so far 
 behind that perhaps a hundred yards is not an over- 
 estimate of their extent from back to front. Imme- 
 diately behind the parlour was an open quadrangle ; the 
 ground floor was occupied by various side-rooms and 
 the offices requisite to a large inn ; on the first floor a 
 balustraded balcony ran round a suite of bedrooms, in 
 one of which I slept as soundly as ever in my life. The 
 balcony, like the quadrangle beneath, was tastefully set 
 
HADLEIGH 
 
 189 
 
 about with flowers and ferns and shrubs, and the 
 fragrance of the place as night fell, and the watering- 
 can or hose had been freely applied, was very pleasing to 
 the senses. Here Shenstone might have penned another 
 poem in praise of inns ; here Hazlitt might have loved 
 to be “ the gentleman in the parlour ” ; here Johnson 
 might surely have found the Suffolk mutton cooked to his 
 liking. 
 
 Still farther back, behind rooms and offices and court- 
 way and stables, stretched a delightful bowling green, 
 fringed with arbours and tables for rest and refreshment. 
 And so, tea being over, I sallied out with some cigarettes, 
 and an acquaintance of a chirruping disposition, to 
 watch the ancient game of bowls, being a sorry bungler 
 at the pastime myself. I was early; the evening game 
 had not yet commenced, but a few players had already 
 assembled, and I gathered that the customary fre- 
 quenters of the green were for the most part men whose 
 journey through life had brought them to where the 
 roadside shadows were beginning to lengthen. They 
 might, collectively, form another Spectator’s Club — 
 one, at least, might have sat to Steele as Sir Andrew 
 Freeport, and I think I could introduce you to an 
 excellent counterfeit of Will. Honeycomb. Very natu- 
 rally, their talk was mostly of local concerns, and, 
 savouring of comment rather than of description, was of 
 little interest to a stranger, — Hadleigh’s own “ Chronique 
 Scandaleuse,” and the game of bowls ; the present place, 
 and the matter in hand — certainly two justifiable themes. 
 The discourse became broken in proportion as the game 
 proceeded. I think they were expert players. I noticed 
 how uniformly the “ jack ” was bowled to within a certain 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 190 
 
 distance from the “ footer ” ; and how accurately each 
 player gauged the bias of his bowl. That bias, or rather 
 its effect, is most curious to watch. The bowl travels, 
 perhaps, three-fourths of the distance towards the jack ; 
 you think it will miss its mark by at least a foot, when 
 lo ! it rounds suddenly and gracefully, and fetches the jack 
 a smart tap on the side while you are guessing the inches 
 by which it has missed. Bowls, I was assured, is a 
 “ funny game.” Some players meet little success save 
 when bowling from their favourite end or corner of the 
 green ; that very end or corner is fatal to others, whilst 
 others again can only play with a bowl having a particular 
 bias — a bias which they have tested so often that any other 
 bowl is foreign to their hand. Bowls was long an illegal 
 game, so rigorously repressed that bowling greens were 
 searched out by order of magistrate in the days of Henry 
 VIII. ; but the men of Hadleigh have long enjoyed it 
 with impunity, their parson, I doubt not, often joining 
 them on the “ dry, smooth-shaven green.” 
 
 The bowling green is near the ancient parish church, 
 whose soaring spire reminded me of that at Hemel 
 Hempstead. The clock bell hangs above the dial, on 
 the east side of the spire ; it is an Ave Maria — that is to 
 say, it bears the inscription, in reversed Lombardic 
 characters, “ Ave Maria graciae plena Dominus tecum.” 
 They tell interesting stories of bells in Hadleigh, stories 
 concerning the eight bells that hang in that old tower, 
 and of men who were wont to ring them. Four of the 
 eight were cast by Graye of Colchester, and, like the great 
 tenor at Lavenham, bear the words “ Miles Graye made 
 me ” lest their tuneful sound should be attributed to 
 the skill of another and inferior maker. Till recently, if 
 
HADLEIGH 
 
 191 
 
 not to-day, several of the peal were in turn used for the 
 passing bell, the bell being selected according to the 
 fee paid for its use. Thus the fourth and oldest was 
 likewise the cheapest ; it was tolled on the death of 
 paupers, and was known as the Union bell. I heard how, 
 until some few years ago, the tenor was rung as the 
 curfew on winter nights, and at five o’clock in the morn- 
 ing, so that maids were indeed without excuse when 
 they failed to bestir themselves betimes. 
 
 Very curious is the story of the Ringer’s Jug ; but its 
 main features are met with in other towns. At Hadleigh, 
 the Ringer’s Jug, a huge holder of drink, was kept at the 
 Eight Bells Inn, in Angel Street, but is no longer there. 
 At Christmas, and on other occasions when pence were 
 plentiful, some sixteen quarts of strong ale were poured 
 into its belly, and intruding strangers, “ unconscious of 
 their doom,” were compelled, not always reluctantly, 
 to contribute towards its replenishment as the ale 
 diminished. This, indeed, was from start to finish the 
 recognised, correct procedure, for was it not enjoined 
 in the words inscribed on the jug itself ? 
 
 If you love me due not lend me, 
 
 Euse me ofton and keep me clenly, 
 
 Fill me full or not at all 
 
 If it be stroung and not with small. 
 
 Such jovial celebrations are doomed to extinction in no 
 distant future ; in most English towns and villages they 
 are extinct already. The ranks of ale-loving bell-ringers 
 have of late been sadly thinned by the ravages of teeto- 
 talism — an epidemic which makes swift progress, despite 
 many hindrances. I could name a town where live a 
 sign-painter and a bell-ringer, both noted exponents of 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 192 
 
 the art of drinking deeply ; but as their associates drop 
 out of their respective professions their places are taken 
 by men whose drink, like Samson’s, is only from the 
 limpid stream, and if those two survive another decade 
 they will be objects of scorn or pity to their temperate 
 brother craftsmen. In some towns I have been shown 
 huge jugs which men of an earlier generation could empty 
 at a draught ; but who is sufficient for these things now ? 
 
 I heard a far different story of past days from the lips 
 of a farm labourer. As a boy, some sixty years since, he 
 seldom saw meat upon his father’s table. The family 
 lived on the outskirts of Hadleigh ; all — father, mother, 
 and the older among many children — worked in the fields 
 almost throughout the year ; even the smaller youngsters 
 gathered acorns, or searched for firewood, or for black- 
 berries to hawk through the town. He assured me, 
 with obvious sincerity, that day after day the family 
 would dine off a mess of offal, bought at the mill 
 door at is. per stone. This, thrown into the stew- 
 pot with a cabbage, or some potato peelings from “ the 
 house,” was the customary fare of many families in the 
 neighbourhood, and was precisely what other folk threw 
 to their pigs and poultry. The father, it appeared, was 
 lucky if he could get sufficient “ small beer ” ; the 
 strong ale in the Ringer’s Jug was not for the likes of 
 him. But the farmer and the miller were in a different 
 case ; and my friend the labourer drew a rosy picture 
 of their prosperity when he was a boy. Even now the 
 farmer very probably gets more than nine coombs of 
 wheat — let us say 170 stones — off one acre of ground ; 
 he can thrash 100 coombs in a day, and the miller pays 
 him as much as 14J. a coomb for the grain. The 
 
HADLEIGH 
 
 193 
 
 miller, in turn, gets about is. 10 d. per stone for the flour 
 at the mill door — and a very nice profit too ! In fine, 
 my informer thought there was “ no call ” to trouble 
 about agriculture, for that was doing well enough : look 
 what fine houses farmers usually live in, and watch what 
 they eat and drink ! But the labourers must be looked 
 to more closely and regarded as human beings, or pre- 
 sently they will all sail to America and the English 
 farmer will have to sow his own corn, and cut it too. 
 Talking of corn, I learned that the Corn Exchange was 
 built nearly a century back, on an open space then called 
 Church Croft — where, in the distant once-upon-a-time, 
 the bull was baited for the amusement of the rabble and 
 elite of Hadleigh. 
 
 Morning came, and something more than a sprinkle 
 of rain deterred me from rambling far abroad. I passed 
 much time, however, in the precincts of the church and 
 rectory, and in the inn parlour — writing up my journal, 
 thinking of the worthies of Hadleigh, and determining 
 “ whom to choose and whom to shun ” for the purposes 
 of these pages. I will not describe the church, for I 
 saw it but in part, and remember imperfectly the little 
 I saw. But I may repeat a few anecdotes touching its 
 story. 
 
 The Church of the Virgin Mary stands, or is thought 
 to stand, near the site of an older structure, concerning 
 which nothing is known. Its furniture was largely 
 modernised during the restoration effected thirty years 
 back ; straight-backed pews of ancient pattern were 
 supplanted by oaken benches on which you could hardly 
 sleep unobserved. The present octagonal pulpit is also 
 of oak ; the brass lectern is a comparatively recent gift. 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 194 
 
 I am, I fear, such a one as Earle blames in his “ Microcos- 
 mographie ” — “ one that hath that unnatural disease 
 to be enamoured of old age and wrinkles ” — and was 
 therefore more interested in one of two Decorated arches, 
 in the south wall of the south aisle, beneath which the 
 dust of Guthrum, King of East Anglia, is supposed to 
 lie. Of this there is no existing proof, nor was any 
 stone of the church laid until Guthrum the Dane had 
 been long dead. But Asser tells us that Guthrum was 
 buried in the “ royal town ” of Hadleigh, and tradition 
 usually locates such tombs in the oldest church of the 
 neighbourhood. The older folk have also a story con- 
 cerning a sunken passage that led from this tomb to the 
 house of a painter in Duke Street ; but careful search 
 in recent years has failed to discover it. 
 
 There were strange doings in this old church in bygone 
 days. Some are remembered merely as legends passed 
 from man to man ; some are recorded in embryo in the 
 volume of ancient registers, carefully cherished in an 
 iron chest ; others are briefly set down in the Guide. 
 The Reformation set its mark upon Hadleigh very 
 effectively ; Foxe asserts that it was one of the first 
 towns that received the Word of God in all England; 
 which he chiefly attributes to the preaching of Bilney, 
 who was much in East Anglia, and eventually perished 
 at Norwich. Indeed, according to Foxe, the men of 
 Hadleigh must have been a pattern of piety to their 
 countrymen. He tells us that many here were “ ex- 
 ceedingly well learned in the Holy Scripture ” ; they 
 had read the Bible repeatedly from end to end and almost 
 knew the Pauline Epistles by heart, so lovingly had they 
 conned those choice writings. Children and servants 
 
HADLEIGH 
 
 I9S 
 
 alike were taught in the volume of the Word ; more- 
 over, the people were followers as well as readers of 
 God’s law, and Hadleigh, as Foxe thought, was more 
 like a University town than a centre of clothmaking. 
 All this the Martyrologist sets down in the first para- 
 graph of his account of “ Doctor Rowland Taylor,” 
 sometime Rector of Hadleigh, and the subject of my 
 next chapter. To the memory of Taylor there is an 
 inscription on brass, on the north wall of the chancel, 
 and a window of stained glass in the south aisle. 
 
 Time passed ; Puritanism was professed by the more 
 advanced Reformers, and its principles in turn spread 
 rapidly in Hadleigh. The church vestments, of unusual 
 richness and variety, and the plate had been bartered for 
 money at the Reformation ; the period of the Rebellion 
 was equally destructive of the church’s property. Dow- 
 sing did not overlook this town in the course of his 
 visitations ; he found here seventy superstitious pictures 
 (i.e.y for the most part, stained glass windows), so he 
 destroyed thirty and ordered that the remainder should 
 be destroyed also. He seems to have met with no 
 organised opposition, and was thus more fortunate than 
 those local zealots who, about the same year, determined 
 to demolish the newly erected communion rails. The 
 rector at that time was Robert Cottesford, a Suffolk man, 
 who had previously been rector at Monk’s Eleigh, and 
 was a nephew of Laud, by whom he was collated to the 
 living at Hadleigh. Certain persons, who regarded 
 communion rails as ar invention of Satan, sought to 
 remove them by force ; but Cottesford was resolved that 
 they should do nothing of the sort. So one Christmas 
 Day, having been warned of the coming attempt, the 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 196 
 
 rector armed himself with a stiletto and, standing near 
 the rails, declared his readiness to thrust it into the first 
 man who should approach. Cowed by the threat, the 
 Puritans withdrew ; but next day they effected an 
 entrance, removed the rails, and did much other damage. 
 
 I have mentioned two rectors of Hadleigh ; the 
 names of nearly fifty are known to history : the first, 
 Rob. de Oysterne, was here so long ago as the year 1292 
 — when Edward I. was King over the land, when John 
 Peckham, better known as Friar John, was Archbishop of 
 Canterbury, and Richard of Gravesend was Bishop of 
 London. Of the early names on that long roll we know 
 little, but as we approach the Reformation period our 
 knowledge becomes fuller, and thenceforward we find 
 the names of interesting men. A few may here be noted 
 with a running pen. 
 
 Thomas Rotherham, collated by Archbishop Bouchier 
 in 1467, was born at Rotherham in 1423. His family 
 name was Scot. He gained distinction and earned 
 several preferments before he became Rector of Had- 
 leigh, and was afterwards Lord High Chancellor of 
 England, Bishop of Rochester and of Lincoln, and finally 
 Archbishop of York and a Cardinal of the Church of 
 Rome. Those were the days of plural livings, and 
 Rotherham was, I suppose, like other rectors of Had- 
 leigh, also Joint Dean of Booking — once the home of the 
 famous Bishop Gauden. Walton, in his Life of Sanderson, 
 says that Rotherham was of “ great wisdom and bounty 
 and sanctity of life ” ; but I can find no record of his 
 doings here. He died of the plague in 1500, and was 
 buried under the shadow of those grand old clustered 
 columns that support and adorn the Lady Chapel at 
 
The Cottage in the Cornfield. 
 

 
 
 
HADLEIGH 
 
 197 
 
 York Minster. To him succeeded William Pykenham, 
 who in his day held more benefices than I care to 
 enumerate. He was essentially a Suffolk prelate. He 
 became Archdeacon of Suffolk in 1471 and Rector of 
 Hadleigh the following year ; at Ipswich you may still 
 see “ Pykenham’s Gate,” in Northgate Street, once 
 attached to the Archdeacon’s residence. Of more im- 
 portance is the red-brick gatehouse, a few yards to the 
 south-west from Hadleigh Church — a monument of his 
 interest for that church’s welfare. The gatehouse— 
 usually called the Deanery Tower, is flanked by hexa- 
 gonal turrets, and is attached to the far more modern 
 rectory. Pykenham, as the story runs, had himself 
 planned a rectory to be entered through the gatehouse, 
 but did not live to build it. A winding stairway leads 
 to the summit of the right-hand exterior turret ; on the 
 first floor is the library, where is a painting on plaster by 
 one Coleman, a local artist ; and two others by Cana- 
 letti, once the guest of a subsequent rector. Pykenham 
 is also remembered by his bequests to the poor, by 
 the almshouses which he founded in George Street, 
 rebuilt some years ago, and by the legend which assigns 
 to him the “ tomb of Guthrum ” — not that already 
 alluded to, but one in the chancel. This, it would appear, 
 must be legend indeed ; for there seems no reason to 
 doubt that Pykenham was buried at Stoke-by-Clare, 
 having, like Matthew Parker afterwards, been Dean of 
 the College in that town. 
 
 Three-quarters of a century passed ; several learned 
 men, not without repute in their day and generation, 
 were successively rectors of Hadleigh ; and then we 
 encounter the name of John Still Still, sent here by 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 198 
 
 Parker, was born at Grantham in 1543. His is one of 
 the most interesting names associated with the town, 
 not for any record of his work here, but because he 
 was author of Gammer Gurtorfs Needle * This literary 
 curiosity was long thought our earliest English comedy ; 
 but the discovery, in 1818, of Ralph Royster D oyster 
 (alluded to in my second chapter) disturbed “ a long- 
 established precedence in our dramatic annals.” Still’s 
 comedy — begging the question of its authorship — was 
 first printed in 1575, during his rectorship here ; it had 
 previously been acted at Cambridge, where he had been 
 student, fellow, ana professor. Written in rhyme and 
 in five acts, the comedy has an original, somewhat 
 coarse, but not uninteresting plot ; it introduces its 
 readers to old Gammer, who, whilst darning for Hodge, 
 loses her needle—' “ a little thing with a hole in the 
 end ” — a catastrophe which sets the whole village agog 
 and causes many complications and much indelicate 
 language. Still became Archdeacon of Sudbury in 1577, 
 and filled other offices ere he became Bishop of Bath 
 and Wells. But he evidently spent much time in Had- 
 leigh. The list of curates is known to be very imperfect ; 
 but there was apparently no regular curate-in-charge 
 whilst Still was rector, which argues that he discharged 
 his duties here with comparative regularity. Moreover, 
 he had several children by his first wife, to whose memory 
 there is a brass in the church, and these were baptized 
 here, which would hardly have been the case had he 
 been seldom in residence. Still died at Wells, and was 
 buried in the cathedral ; the epitaph on his alabaster 
 monument was written by Camden. 
 
 * The authorship is disputed, but most critics attribute it to Still. 
 
HADLEIGH 
 
 l 99 
 
 John Beaumont, sent here by Elizabeth when Still 
 went to Wales, and Thomas Goad, a native of Cambridge, 
 were rectors of note, and both lie in the precincts of their 
 church. The latter was an English delegate at the Synod 
 of Dort. His likeness was long preserved on the face 
 of a sun-dial that hung on a porch no longer standing ; 
 the rector was shown in his surplice, approaching a 
 funeral. His monument, known to have been formerly 
 in the church, has disappeared; it is related that a 
 brother, summoned to his death-bed, died suddenly and 
 was buried in the same grave. He was succeeded by 
 Cottesford, already mentioned, who was deprived soon 
 after the scene at the communion rails, and is reputed to 
 have turned physician and died at Ipswich. Three near 
 successors, chaplains to Juxon, Sheldon, and Sancroft 
 respectively, were all buried in the chancel here. The 
 last of the three, Charles Trumball, was deprived as a 
 non-juror in 1691. To Trumball, in 1695, succeeded 
 Zachariah Fiske, who had indeed acted as rector even 
 while Trumball lived. He was also Rector of Cockfield — 
 once the home of Churchill Babington, author of “ The 
 Birds of Suffolk,” who was visited there by Stevenson in 
 1870. Richard Smallbroke, collated to Hadleigh in 
 1709, became Bishop of Lichfield ; his successor, Robert 
 Clavering, was long Regius Professor of Hebrew at 
 Oxford, and, dying as Bishop of Peterborough, was 
 buried in the choir of his cathedral. And so the list 
 extends ; name after name is of men who became widely 
 famous ere they entered into rest, almost every rector 
 filling other honourable offices. Richard Ibbeston was a 
 Fellow of Oriel College, Oxford, and Precentor of 
 Exeter \ William Byrche, memorialised in Worcester 
 
200 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 Cathedral, was Chancellor and Prebendary of that 
 sanctuary ; David Wilkins was Librarian in the Archie- 
 piscopal Library at Lambeth, Canon of Canterbury, 
 and Archdeacon of Suffolk. There were yet three 
 rectors before, in 1830, Hugh James Rose was sent here 
 by Archbishop Howley. His influence in the Oxford 
 Movement is well known ; it is even said that the famous 
 Tracts were the direct outcome of deliberations held in 
 the rectory here, where Rose was visited by Hurrell 
 Froude, Palmer, and others. A testimony to Rose’s 
 worth, from the pen of a greater man than Froude or 
 Palmer, is so felicitously expressed that I venture to 
 quote it from the “ Apologia Pro Vita Sua” : “ To mention 
 Mr. Hugh Rose’s name is to kindle in the minds of those 
 who know him a host of pleasant and affectionate remem- 
 brances. He was the man above all others fitted by his 
 cast of mind and literary powers to make a stand, if a 
 stand could be made, against the calamity of the times. 
 He was gifted with a high and large mind, and a true 
 sensibility of what was great and beautiful ; he wrote 
 with warmth and energy ; and he had a cool head and 
 cautious judgment. He spent his strength and shortened 
 his life, fro ecclesia Dei , as he understood that sovereign 
 idea.” Rose became Principal of King’s College, London, 
 in 1836; he died and was buried at Florence only two 
 years later. 
 
 I have written enough to show why I spoke of the 
 “ worthies ” of Hadleigh. The list might be indefi- 
 nitely prolonged ; but it must suffice to add that the 
 learned Trench was curate here during Rose’s rector- 
 ship ; that John Overall, who was Bishop of Norwich 
 three centuries ago and a translator of the Authorised 
 
HADLEIGH 
 
 201 
 
 Version, was born and baptized in the town, as were 
 also William Alabaster, author of “ Roxana,” and William 
 Fuller, father-in-law to Brian Walton, whom he assisted 
 with his “ Polyglott,” which was praised and patronised 
 by Cromwell. Nor need I overlook good old Isaac 
 Toms, a Dissenting parson, who preached the Word in 
 Hadleigh ’for fifty-seven years, and rests from his labours 
 in the graveyard of that church from which he dissented. 
 He lived to be ninety years of age, and, dying in 1801, 
 had been the friend of Watts and of Doddridge. Let 
 us hope that Toms was indeed sound in faith, and unlike 
 a “ Mr. Beamon of Hadleigh,” who, at a meeting of the 
 Presbyterian Classis held at Wenham in 1583, was re- 
 ported to have preached an “ ungodlie sermon defacing 
 the men of Antwerpe.” Beaumont, it may be noted, 
 was the name of an old and honoured family in Had- 
 leigh ; a memorial formerly in the church nave was to a 
 Joseph Beaumont who died in 1681. As we have seen, 
 at least one rector bore the name ; and a second Joseph 
 Beaumont, born in Hadleigh in 1616, was the author of 
 many volumes, a parson at Kelshall and Barley in Hert- 
 fordshire, and a Professor of Divinity at Cambridge. 
 Let me saunter up and down awhile before I turn in 
 to rest, for the contemplation of so much learning and 
 preferment is extremely humbling to a mere layman. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A SUFFOLK WORTHY 
 
 Next morning, a drizzle of rain fell again upon Hadleigh, 
 and I feared a bad wetting if I started prematurely upon 
 my rambles. I confided my doubts to the comely 
 Suffolk lass who laid breakfast at the inn ; but she pre- 
 dicted a blue sky before noon, so I presently went on my 
 way rejoicing. She proved a true prophetess. There 
 was a rift in the rain-clouds ere I left the town, and a 
 blink of blue that augured well for the future. Indeed, 
 as I turned into the lane that led me, after many devia- 
 tions, to the little church on the hillside at Aldham, the 
 clouds had parted, and instead of leaden hue and de- 
 pressing rain I saw, to the far horizon, an expanse of 
 unbroken azure. A large gull, wavering in the bright 
 sunshine over a cornfield near the church, was a welcome 
 wanderer so far from sea. A tinker, mending a kettle 
 by the roadside, must surely have passed his days in an 
 inland town ; for he stared at the gull in unfeigned 
 surprise, as who should say, “ Never before have I seen 
 so fearful a wild-fowl.” 
 
 At Aldham a farmyard adjoins “ God’s Acre ” ; the 
 songs of larks and the cackle of poultry made a strange 
 medley of sound. The headstones in old churchyards 
 usually display some curious inscriptions ; one such at 
 Aldham reads : 
 
A SUFFOLK WORTHY 
 
 203 
 
 When some few moons and fewer suns 
 Had run their usual round, 
 
 Death with his scythe hastely runs 
 And swiftly mows me down. 
 
 These epitaphs, for the most part, are but endless 
 variations on the theme that life is uncertain — as un- 
 certain as the play of the arrow that tops the round 
 tower of Aldham Church. The simile, in various forms, 
 has occurred to many. When the spectator meditated 
 among the tombs in Westminster Abbey, he thought of 
 that passage in Holy Writ which likens human life to 
 the path of an arrow — so soon “ closed up and lost.” 
 
 But I came to Aldham not to meditate amidst decay. 
 I came, rather, with my head full of a dramatic and very 
 tragic story. I may say, indeed, like Defoe, that I came 
 “ principally to satisfy my curiosity and see the place 
 where that famous martyr and pattern of charity and 
 religious zeal in Queen Mary’s time, Dr. Rowland 
 Taylor, was put to death.” The story may be said to 
 begin here, under the very shadow of Aldham Church. 
 Readers may find it in detail in the pages of Foxe, and 
 a useful digest from Foxe is in Southey’s “ Book of the 
 Church.” By bringing together the fragments from 
 this corner of history I may provide an interesting 
 narrative. The story is worth repeating ; but I must 
 tell it in my own way. 
 
 Early in the reign of Mary, the parson of Aldham, one 
 John Averth, favoured a return to the ritual of Rome. 
 Of Averth himself we know little, nor is that little much 
 to his credit, unless he is greatly belied by Foxe. At that 
 time, as we know, many persons wished a return to pre- 
 Reformation practices, and Averth found no difficulty 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 204 
 
 in obtaining assistance. He became one of three who 
 determined to re-introduce the Mass, or, as Foxe puts 
 it, to “ bring in the Pope and his maumetry againe 
 into Hadley Church.” His two helpers were one 
 Foster, a lawyer, and John Clerke, a man of Hadleigh. 
 Foxe, indeed, says that Foster and Clerke were the 
 instigators of the movement, and that they “ hired ” 
 Averth to celebrate Mass at Hadleigh Church after the 
 Romish fashion. But, so far as I can ascertain, neither 
 Foster nor Clerke held any position in the church, and 
 it is probable that Averth, being a parson so near at hand, 
 and “ a very fit minister for their purpose,” was in reality 
 the prime mover in this matter. However this may 
 have been, these three men determined to re-introduce 
 the Mass at Hadleigh. In this they were to be stoutly 
 opposed, for the Rector of Hadleigh, Dr. Rowland Taylor, 
 who in 1544 had been collated to the living by Cranmer, 
 was a staunch Reformer. 
 
 The Mass presupposes an altar. But at Hadleigh, 
 as elsewhere since the Reformation, there was evidently 
 no altar in Taylor’s day, but an unfixed communion 
 table such as Ridley had sanctioned in his episcopal 
 visitations, and such as more Catholic churchmen had 
 termed “ oyster boards.” Foster and Clerke’s first 
 step was to “ build up ” an altar ; but many parishioners 
 were otherwise minded, and the structure was destroyed 
 in the night. It was again rebuilt and protected from 
 further violation. Mass was to be celebrated on the 
 following day, when Averth, protected by armed fol- 
 lowers, was to come over from Aldham with the necessary 
 vestments and other paraphernalia required for the 
 “ Popish pageant.” 
 
A SUFFOLK WORTHY 
 
 205 
 
 On the morrow, as Taylor sat reading the Bible, 
 probably in what is now the rector’s library, he suddenly 
 heard the church bells strike up. The Rev. Hugh 
 Pigot, M.A., in his interesting book on Hadleigh, says 
 that Taylor heard the bells “ to his great surprise, as 
 they rang for an unusual service.” I do not know on 
 what authority this is stated, for Foxe records, clearly 
 enough, that Taylor supposed something was to be done 
 “ according to his pastoral office,” and that he therefore 
 arose from his Bible and went into the church. The 
 doors were mostly shut and barred ; but the chancel 
 door was “ only latched,” so the rector entered and passed 
 into the chancel. What he there saw might have annoyed 
 a high Anglican ; it must have astounded Taylor. For 
 there stood Averth, in Eucharistic vestments suited to 
 the Roman office, about to begin the celebration of 
 Mass. His crown, as Foxe assures us, was newly shaven ; 
 he was surrounded by men with drawn swords and with 
 bucklers ; Foster and Clerke were both present. 
 
 Taylor’s first remark, as the story runs, would now 
 be deemed unfit for the lips of an ecclesiastic. “ Thou 
 devil,” said he, “ who made thee so bold to enter into 
 this church of Christ, to profane and defile it with 
 this abominable idolatry ! ” Foster turned upon him 
 furiously ; charged him with being a traitor, and asked 
 why he hindered proceedings that had the Queen’s 
 sanction. Taylor replied — very naturally — that he was 
 no traitor, but the duly appointed shepherd of the flock 
 at Hadleigh, and he ordered the “ Popish wolf ” to 
 betake himself elsewhere. Again Foster called him a 
 traitor, and repeated that Taylor was resisting the 
 Queen’s proceedings. But Taylor was not easily put 
 
20 6 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 down. He charged the Papists with idolatry, main- 
 taining that their conduct was contrary to the Scriptures, 
 against the Queen’s honour, and dangerous to the realm. 
 He then pointed out that the proceedings were illegal, 
 as the law provided that Mass could only be said at a 
 consecrated altar. But here Taylor was at a disadvan- 
 tage. He was evidently not aware that Averth had 
 brought with him a super-altar — a consecrated stone, 
 used by priests at private Masses — and Averth, at first 
 somewhat disconcerted by Taylor’s charge of illegality, 
 was encouraged to proceed by Clerke, who pointed out 
 that the super-altar was sufficient for their purpose. 
 At the same time, Foster and his men led Taylor out 
 of the church and the Mass was presently concluded. 
 
 It is difficult, in whatever direction one’s prejudices 
 may lie, to accuse Taylor of improper conduct. But 
 his share in that day’s proceedings was to cost him his 
 life — so far had the ecclesiastical mind of England 
 travelled since the Forty-two Articles of Edward VI. 
 had been approved by convocation in London. Imme- 
 diately afterwards, Foster and Clerke drew up a letter 
 of complaint against Taylor. The letter was addressed 
 to Gardiner, who himself had lain successively in the 
 Fleet and the Tower for conscience’ sake and was then 
 Lord Chancellor of England. Gardiner, when in prison, 
 had written against Cranmer in defence of the Real 
 Presence, and Foster knew well that such a letter would 
 not be ignored by the Chancellor. The charge was 
 promptly considered, and Taylor was ordered to appear 
 before Gardiner. Such procedure could have but one 
 ending ; Taylor’s personal friends feared for his safety, 
 as well they might, and he was urged to flee. It was 
 
A SUFFOLK WORTHY 
 
 207 
 
 argued that he could not hope to be heard with impar- 
 tiality ; that he could not expect justice, much less 
 favour, at the hands of Gardiner, who would assuredly 
 send him to prison and ultimately to death. But 
 Taylor was too staunch a Protestant to care for his own 
 safety. He replied that by God’s grace he would appear 
 boldly before his adversaries ; he had lived into “ terrible 
 and most wicked days,” and could render God no greater 
 service than by facing Gardiner, whose religion he 
 summarised as “ idolatry, superstition, errors, hypocrisy 
 and lies.” 
 
 The journey was undertaken without delay. Taylor 
 left the care of his parish to Sir Richard Yeoman — “ a 
 godlie olde priest,” who was destined to be himself 
 deprived in turn, and who for some time wandered in 
 Kent, where he hawked laces and pins and points and 
 “ such little things ” for a livelihood. Again Taylor 
 was urged to flee. He set out on his journey accom- 
 panied by a servant, John Hull, who offered to go with 
 him anywhere rather than to Gardiner. But nothing 
 could shake Taylor’s resolution. “ Oh, John,” said he, 
 <c shall I give place to this thy counsel and worldly per- 
 suasion, and leave my flock in this danger ? ” John’s 
 answer is not recorded, but he remained with his master 
 to the last. So they reached London ; and Taylor 
 presented himself before Gardiner. 
 
 The details of the charge and of the reply are too long 
 to quote. Moreover, they would interest none save 
 theologians — so far to seek in these degenerate days. 
 But I may summarise the gist of the matter, ere I pass 
 to the story of Taylor’s martyrdom. Foxe tells us that 
 Gardiner reviled and reproached Taylor, “ according 
 
208 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 to his common custom,” and that Taylor listened with 
 truly Christian patience. As is often the case under 
 similar circumstances, both men asked more questions 
 than they answered ; Gardiner, indeed, seems to have 
 anticipated Milton’s dictum that a man may be a heretic 
 in the Truth ; for his own part, he thanked God that 
 he had returned to the Catholic Church of Rome, and 
 expressed the desire, doubtless sincere enough, that 
 Taylor should do the same. To do this, in Taylor’s 
 opinion, would be to forsake the true Church of Christ, 
 and he asked rather that the Pope and his followers 
 should return to Christ and his Word and renounce 
 idolatry. He urged that Gardiner himself had written 
 truly against the Pope, referring, presumably, to the 
 “ De Vera Obedientia,” written by Gardiner and other 
 bishops some twenty years earlier — “ The ablest,” 
 says Dr. Gairdner, “ of all the vindications of royal 
 supremacy.” The Chancellor replied that his former 
 foreswearing of the Pope was like Herod’s oath, which 
 occasioned the death of John the Baptist, and deserved 
 to be broken rather than kept. Much abuse followed. 
 Both men rated each other soundly, using such language 
 as Luther had used against the Pope and as Milton was 
 to use against Salmasius. Many readers, glancing through 
 Foxe’s narrative for the first time, will be surprised to 
 notice how highly the memory of Henry VIII. was 
 esteemed, in those days, by men of undoubted integrity. 
 Foxe himself refers to Henry as a “ most godly king ” ; 
 Taylor styles him “ blessed ” and of “ famous memory.” 
 They will notice, too, that Gardiner was very zealous 
 for the Queen’s authority. This is more easily explained. 
 Gardiner was for some time Mary’s most trusted 
 
A SUFFOLK WORTHY 
 
 209 
 
 councillor ; lie was probably as anxious as the Queen for 
 the extirpation of Protestantism, and as Chancellor of 
 England he naturally represented her prerogatives as 
 those for which he was most anxiously concerned. This 
 first interview concluded with warm words about the 
 true nature of what Gardiner styled the “ holy Mass ” 
 and Taylor the “ blessed Sacrament ” — the latter main- 
 taining, with “ all the doctors,” that it is only a 
 memorial of a sacrifice offered once for all. The result 
 was assuredly a foregone conclusion. Taylor was re- 
 moved to the King’s Bench, where he lay, altogether, 
 for nearly two years. Here he read, wrote, preached 
 and prayed ; and here, for a time, John Bradford was 
 a fellow prisoner. 
 
 I have before me a reprint of “ The Letters of the 
 Martyrs,” first published in 1564, with a preface from 
 the pen of Coverdale. It contains a letter written by 
 Taylor during his imprisonment, in which he narrates, 
 with much spirit, what passed at his subsequent exami- 
 nation by the “ King and Queen’s most honourable 
 Council.” Again the disputants found no end, in wan- 
 dering mazes lost ; again the Fathers were appealed to, 
 and Taylor claimed intimate knowledge of the Scriptures, 
 and of Augustine, Cyprian, Eusebius, Origen, Gregory 
 Nazianzen, and other books. The Councils were also 
 appealed to ; Gardiner called Taylor a “ snatcher and a 
 patcher,” and on hearing the Hadleigh parson’s final 
 refusal to recant, he promised judgment within a week. 
 
 Judgment was not delayed. On the last day of 
 January, Taylor, with Bradford and Sanders, appeared 
 again before Gardiner. Many other bishops were present. 
 The three divines were roundly charged with heresy and 
 
210 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 schism, and were commanded to adjure their errors. 
 They stoutly refused, and were sentenced to death. 
 Taylor was removed to the Clink, the Bishop of Win- 
 chester’s prison in Southwark, close to his own house and 
 the landing-place known as the Bishop’s Stairs. Gar- 
 diner ordered that the heretic should be strictly guarded, 
 but he was permitted to speak to the crowd by the way, 
 and promised to confirm the Truth with his blood. 
 In the Clink, however, he only remained till evening, 
 when he was taken to the Counter in the Poultry, a 
 prison of one of the London sheriffs. The Counter, or, 
 as Stow spells it, the Compter, stood close to St. Mildred’s 
 Church, and was so old that Stow, writing soon after 
 Taylor’s day, could find no record of its origin. Here, 
 for a time at least, Taylor shared a chamber with 
 Bradford, so soon to perish in the flames at Smithfield. 
 
 At this point Gardiner disappears from the story, and 
 Bonner, then Bishop of London, comes upon the scene. 
 According to Foxe, Gardiner had been very boldly faced 
 by Bradford, who had stated the Protestant case very 
 ably, and the bishop, after passing condemnation on 
 Taylor, Bradford, and others, seems to have been per- 
 suaded that such persecution would ultimately avail 
 but little. He was glad to leave such cases wholly in 
 Bonner’s hands, who, as Foxe puts it, “ supplied that 
 part right doughtily,” which few will deny. Accord- 
 ingly, on February 4, the day upon which John Rogers 
 was burnt at Smithfield, Bonner came to the Counter 
 to degrade Taylor. Such episodes of Church history 
 are hardly edifying, but, unfortunately, there is little 
 doubt that what follows is substantially true. Bonner, 
 on seeing Taylor, offered to sue for his pardon if the 
 
A SUFFOLK WORTHY 
 
 21 1 
 
 prisoner would recant and turn to “ holy mother church.” 
 “ I would,” replied Taylor, “ you and your fellows would 
 turn to Christ. As for me, I will not turn to Antichrist.” 
 Bonner ordered him to put on the vestures of the Mass. 
 Taylor refused ; so the vestures were put upon him by 
 another. Then the good man broke out into bitter 
 raillery. Walking up and down the room, he said : 
 “ How say you, my Lord, am I not a goodly fool ? How 
 say you, my masters ? If I were in Cheape, should I 
 not have boys enough to laugh at these apish toys and 
 toying trumpery ? ” Bonner’s answer is not recorded ; 
 but we read that he at once proceeded to degrade the 
 prisoner. As customary in such cases, he scraped Taylor’s 
 fingers, thumbs, and the crown of his head ; but did not 
 strike his breast with the crozier, as his chaplain warned 
 him that Taylor would strike in return, which the 
 prisoner hastened to acknowledge. “ By St. Peter,” 
 said he, “ the cause is Christ’s, and I were no good 
 Christian if I would not fight in my Master’s quarrel.” 
 Bonner laid his curse upon him, and Taylor, return- 
 ing to his chamber, boasted to Bradford that he had 
 frightened the Bishop of London. 
 
 So that night, now so long ago, and in that prison of 
 immemorial antiquity, now an unpleasant memory 
 only, Taylor spent his last hours in social intercourse 
 and in the preparation of his Last Will and Testament. 
 His wife and his son Thomas supped with him, as did 
 also John Hull ; but before supper they knelt and 
 prayed, repeating the Litany. Later in the evening 
 he addressed his son in words which — to me at least — 
 seem very touching. I give them here in Foxe’s quaint 
 spelling. “ My deare sonne,” said he, “ Almighty God 
 
212 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 blesse thee, and give thee His holy spirit, to be a true 
 servant of Christ, to learne His word, and constantly to 
 stand by His trueth all thy life long. And, my sonne, 
 see that thou feare God alwaies. Flee from all sin, and 
 wicked living ; be vertuous ; serve God with dayly 
 praier, and apply thy book. In any wise see thou be 
 obedient to thy mother, love her, and serve her ; be 
 ruled by her now in thy youth, and follow her good 
 counsell in all things. Beware of lewd company, of 
 young men that feare not God but followe their lewd 
 lusts and vaine appetites. An other day when God shall 
 blesse thee, love and cherish the poore people, and 
 count that thy chiefe riches is to be rich in almes ; and 
 when thy mother is waxed old, forsake her not, but 
 provide for her to thy power, and see that she lacke 
 nothing. For so will God bless thee, and give thee long 
 life upon earth and prosperitie ; which I pray God to 
 graunt him.” 
 
 He spoke also to his wife, warning her against Popery 
 and superstition ; he advised her to marry again — some 
 honest man who feared God, and to rear her family in 
 the love of God and in learning. To Thomas he gave 
 a volume in Latin — sayings of the martyrs from “ Eccle- 
 siastica Historia ” — in the end of which he wrote his 
 Testament and some words of farewell. In that Testa- 
 ment he commended his family to the care of God ; 
 assured his dear friends at Hadleigh that he departed 
 with a quiet conscience, having preached to others 
 what he had himself learned from “ God’s booke, the 
 blessed Bible,” and urged them to be steadfast in the 
 faith. 
 
 On the morrow, at two o’clock in the morning, the 
 
A SUFFOLK WORTHY 
 
 213 
 
 Sheriff of London and his officers came to the Counter, 
 and Taylor was taken to the Woolsack, an inn near 
 Aldgate. His wife, with her daughter Mary, and an 
 orphan whom Taylor had supported from infancy, 
 watched for him in the porch of St. Botolph’s Church, 
 for she knew that the sheriff and his men would pass that 
 way. It was so dark that the good woman could hardly 
 see her husband ; but she called to him, and the sheriff 
 allowed the two to talk together. Presently the little 
 company kneeled down and repeated the Lord’s Prayer, 
 the sheriff and some of his attendants being so touched 
 that they shed tears. When they parted, Taylor’s wife 
 promised that by God’s grace she would meet her husband 
 at Hadleigh, and she followed him to the Woolsack. 
 Here Taylor was watched by Yeomen of the Guard. His 
 wife was advised by the sheriff to go home. He promised 
 to care for her necessities, and ordered two officers to go 
 with her. She wished, however, to go to her mother’s 
 house, where they promptly conducted her. 
 
 Taylor remained for some hours at the Woolsack. 
 Then, towards noon, he was placed on horseback in the 
 inn yard, and was handed over to the Sheriff of Essex. 
 The faithful John Hull, and Taylor’s son Thomas, waited 
 outside to see him. Hull set the boy on the horse before 
 his father, who blessed his son, spoke to those around in 
 favour of “ lawful matrimony,” and then said, “ Fare- 
 well, John Hull, the faithfullest servant that ever man 
 had.” When the cavalcade set out upon their journey, 
 Taylor was the most cheerful man among them. He 
 chatted freely with the sheriff and with the Yeomen of 
 the Guard, nor did he forget to counsel them earnestly 
 to repent of their sins. By his escort, as a whole, the 
 
214 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 prisoner was kindly treated, but one of the yeomen 
 was unkind and churlish towards him, and Foxe was 
 careful to record that the name of that man was Homes. 
 
 That night, as Taylor sat at supper with the Sheriff 
 of Essex, the talk was largely of religious matters. The 
 sheriff seems to have been truly anxious for the prisoner’s 
 conversion — or, as Taylor himself would have said, his 
 perversion. He argued that the loss of such a man 
 as Taylor was to be deplored ; God had made him very 
 learned and wise, and had given him great repute in the 
 eyes of the Council. Moreover, he was beloved for his 
 virtues as much as for his learning, and without doubt, 
 if he would join the holy Church of Rome, he would 
 presently be in even greater repute than ever. The 
 sheriff added that, if Taylor would comply, he and the 
 company present would themselves sue for his pardon. 
 Finally, the sheriff and yeomen offered to pledge their 
 word by drinking with the prisoner. It is not recorded 
 that Taylor answered “ Get thee hence, Satan,” but 
 the conversation must surely have reminded him of the 
 Temptation on that exceeding high mountain of which 
 St. Matthew speaks. 
 
 The scene that followed is closely described by Foxe. 
 It was worth describing. When the company had all 
 drunk, as an act of goodwill, they passed the cup to 
 Taylor. Taylor paused as if considering what he should 
 reply. After awhile, “ Master Sheriff,” said he, “ and 
 my masters all, I heartily thank you for your goodwill. 
 I have hearkened to your words and marked well your 
 counsels. And to be plain with you, I do perceive that 
 I have been deceived myself, and am like to deceive a 
 great many of Hadleigh of their expectation.” At this, 
 
A SUFFOLK WORTHY 
 
 215 
 
 not seeing the true drift of Taylor’s remarks, the sheriff 
 and his men were pleased. “ It is the comfortablest 
 word,” said the sheriff, “ that we heard you speak yet.” 
 But presently he asked what Taylor meant when he 
 spoke of deceiving many at Hadleigh. Taylor’s reply 
 savours somewhat of the wit of his contemporary, 
 Latimer, and must be quoted in full. “ I will tell you,” 
 said Taylor, “ how I have been deceived, and, as I think, 
 I shall deceive a great many. I am, as you see, a man 
 that hath a very great carcass, which I thought should 
 have been buried in Hadleigh churchyard, if I had died 
 in my bed, as I well hoped I should have done. But 
 herein I was deceived ; and there are a great number of 
 worms in Hadleigh churchyard, which should have had 
 jolly feeding upon this carrion, which they had looked 
 for many a day. But now we be deceived, both I and 
 they ; for this carcass must be burnt to ashes, and so 
 shall they lose their bait and feeding that they looked 
 to have had of it.” By this reply the company was 
 greatly surprised and disappointed ; it furnished Foxe 
 with matter for a passing homily. He adds that Taylor’s 
 chief thought, even in his most prosperous days, was 
 that worms would presently devour his body, and 
 expresses the wish that “ bishops and spiritual men ” 
 had always meditated in like manner, for then they 
 would not have turned from God’s truth to uphold the 
 authority of the Bishop of Rome. 
 
 At Chelmsford, Taylor was transferred to the care of 
 the Sheriff of Suffolk, who led him, by a somewhat cir- 
 cuitous route, to Hadleigh by way of Lavenham. Here, 
 by the market cross, Taylor spent the last two days of his 
 life in confinement, chained, it is said, to a post in the 
 
21 6 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 basement of the Guildhall, till recently preserved. At 
 Lavenham the sheriff was joined by many “ gentlemen 
 and justices upon great horses,” evidently brought 
 together to ensure that so refractory a heretic was satis- 
 factorily disposed of. In justice, however, to them, and 
 to Taylor’s many persecutors, we must remember that 
 they would have been glad to save his life ; they did not 
 desire his blood so much as his recantation. Hardly 
 any historian of repute now charges the Marian perse- 
 cutors with cruelty for its own sake. To misjudge them 
 on this point is to misjudge the whole story. Taylor 
 was offered not only pardon but preferment ; even a 
 bishopric was tendered him in vain, and we may appre- 
 ciate the grounds of his refusal without ignoring the facts 
 of the case. True Protestant as he was, only one course 
 was open to him ; he chose the stake rather than the 
 mitre because, as Foxe assures us, he had not built his 
 house upon the sand, but upon a sure and immovable 
 rock — the Lord Jesus Christ. 
 
 Taylor maintained his cheerfulness to the last. As 
 the party journeyed towards Hadleigh, he told the 
 sheriff that he was in sight of home, almost at his father’s 
 house, and asked if they were to pass through the town. 
 The sheriff promised that they should do so. The 
 promise pleased Taylor, who desired to see his flock 
 once more, whom he claimed to have truly taught. So 
 they came towards the town where, for so many years, 
 he had fought the good fight of faith. If I read the 
 narrative correctly, they passed down Gallows Hill and 
 entered Hadleigh by way of “ Hadlie brigge.” Upon 
 the bridge waited a poor man “ with five small children,” 
 whom Taylor had been kind to in the past, and who now 
 
A SUFFOLK WORTHY 
 
 217 
 
 prayed that the good man might himself be succoured 
 in his hour of need. The common folk, hearing what 
 was going forward, had flocked together from all parts. 
 They beset the procession on both sides and clamoured 
 so loudly against the treatment of Taylor, whom they 
 sincerely loved, that the sheriff and his men rebuked 
 them strongly. Taylor repeated his promise that he 
 would seal God’s word and truth with his own blood, 
 and the people, continuing their lamentations, cried 
 out that he had been their good shepherd, and compared 
 themselves to scattered sheep. 
 
 Foxe records that Taylor was deprived of his living 
 when first sent to prison, and that while there he had 
 been supported by free gifts from folk that visited him. 
 Some of this money was still left, so when he reached 
 the old almshouses Taylor gave it to the poor inhabi- 
 tants, who stood at their doors to watch him pass. In 
 the last house lived a blind man and woman, who re- 
 mained within. Taylor, who had put the last of his 
 money in a glove, threw it in at the window and rode on. 
 It may be called the last free act of his life. 
 
 Thus, on February 9, 1555 — the day of Hooper’s mar- 
 tyrdom at Gloucester — they came to Aldham Common. 
 The place is common-land no longer, and when I first 
 saw the stone that commemorates the martyrdom it 
 stood “ in among the bearded barley,” at a spot from 
 which Taylor could look down upon the church where 
 he had so often preached, and the neighbouring church at 
 Kersey. A great crowd had gathered together, but he 
 was not permitted to speak ; we are told, indeed, that 
 whenever he tried to do so a staff was thrust into his 
 mouth. As was usually the case during the Marian 
 
218 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 martyrdoms, the crowd largely favoured the victim, and 
 serious rioting might have followed had Taylor been 
 allowed to appeal to the sympathies of those around him. 
 Foxe mentions a rumour, current at the time, that the 
 Council had threatened to cut the martyrs’ tongues 
 out of their mouths if they attempted to speak publicly 
 before they died. 
 
 The scene which followed, though less revolting than 
 that enacted at Gloucester, was marked by much cruelty. 
 Taylor, finding he could not address the crowd, pre- 
 pared to die. A man named Soyce helped him to take 
 off his boots ; then he stripped to his shirt, giving his 
 clothing to those standing by. Again he tried to speak, 
 but had only time to affirm that he had taught the Truth 
 from the Scriptures before Homes — the yeoman pre- 
 viously mentioned — struck him on the head with a cudgel. 
 Then Taylor began to pray, and a poor woman, heedless 
 of threats that the horses should tread her down, pushed 
 forward and prayed beside him. Close by stood the 
 stake ; before it was placed a tar-barrel, in which the 
 sufferer was to stand. He was very near that home of 
 which he had spoken. 
 
 Taylor was chained to the stake in the usual manner. 
 One Doningham, a butcher, was ordered to arrange the 
 faggots, but pleaded lameness. The four men who ulti- 
 mately performed the task are named by Foxe, who speaks 
 of them harshly. Mulleine of Carsey (Kersey) was 
 “ fit to be a hangman ” ; Soyce was a “ very drunkard ” ; 
 Warwike had lost an ear for “ seditious talke ” ; King 
 was a “ deviser of enterludes.” They did their work 
 “ most diligently,” and when all was ready Warwike 
 flung a faggot at the victim. The faggot struck Taylor 
 
A SUFFOLK WORTHY 
 
 219 
 
 on the head, and blood ran down his face. Then, as he 
 repeated a Psalm in English, Sir John Shelton struck 
 him on the mouth and ordered him to speak Latin. 
 The fire was lighted. Taylor, after calling upon God, 
 neither spoke nor moved. Presently Soyce killed him 
 with a blow from a halberd, and the body fell forward 
 in the flames. Taylor was one of thirty-six persons 
 martyred in Suffolk during the Marian persecution. 
 
 Taylor left behind him an honourable name. We do 
 not know how long elapsed ere any public honour was 
 done to his memory. On the morrow, as we read 
 in Strype’s “ Cranmer,” John Nowell, who had suc- 
 ceeded to the benefice, preached at Hadleigh. It was 
 a “ right Popish sermon,’’ says Strype, which we can 
 easily believe. Nowell admitted that the crowd had 
 been much moved by the martyr’s death, but did his 
 best to correct the impression, and imputed Taylor’s 
 fortitude to assistance from the Devil. Moreover, 
 ignoring the fact that Taylor was not allowed to speak 
 (which he must certainly have known), he blamed him 
 for not having addressed the crowd, and attributed 
 such silence to stubbornness rather than Christianity. 
 Probably, as Mr. Pigot surmises, some forty or fifty 
 years passed ere a stone, with a brief, rude inscription, 
 was placed on the spot where Taylor suffered. The 
 inscription — if memory serves me — is almost obliterated ; 
 but it runs as follows : 
 
 1555 
 
 D TAYLER IN DE 
 FENDING THAT 
 WAS GOOD AT 
 THIS PLAS LEFT 
 HIS BLODE. 
 
220 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 In 1729, when Aldham Common was enclosed, it was 
 agreed that the land round Taylor’s monument should 
 not be ploughed “ within a rod.” Some years after- 
 wards — probably in 1739, as a Minute seems to show — 
 the stone was protected by iron railings. A more im- 
 posing monument was erected in 1819, immediately 
 behind the older stone. On this monument are some 
 couplets from the pen of Nathan Drake, author of many 
 books still familiar to us, who lies in Hadleigh church- 
 yard. Those couplets have been published from an 
 inaccurate copy ; I re-copied them as I stood by the 
 martyr’s grave, and need hardly apologise if I repeat 
 the whole inscription : 
 
 Suffered 
 
 the 9th of February 
 
 1555 - 
 
 This is the Victory that overcometh the World, 
 even our Faith. — I John, ch. 5, v. 4. 
 
 Mark this rude stone where Taylor dauntless stood, 
 
 Where Zeal infuriate drank the Martyr’s blood ; 
 
 Hadleigh ! That day how many a tearful eye 
 Saw thy lov’d Pastor dragg’d a Victim by ; 
 
 Still scattering gifts and blessings as He past, 
 
 To the Blind Pair his farewell alms were cast ; 
 
 His clinging flock e’en here around him pray’d 
 “ As thou hast aided us, Be God thine Aid.” 
 
 Nor taunts, nor bribe of mitred rank nor stake, 
 
 Nor blows, nor flames, his heart of firmness shake 
 Serene — his folded hands his upward eyes 
 Like holy Stephen’s, seek the opening skies : 
 
 There, fix’d in rapture, his prophetic sight 
 Views Truth dawn clear on England’s bigot night ; 
 Triumphant Saint ! He bow’d and kiss’d the rod, 
 
 And soar’d on Seraph wing to meet his God. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 AT BRANTHAM 
 
 I began the last stage of my journey when I quitted 
 Hadleigh. The branch line of the Great Eastern Rail- 
 way, that meets the Ipswich line at Bentley Junction, 
 is the only railway service to Hadleigh, Unless the 
 morning of my departure coincided with some unusual 
 business or festivity that line is remarkably well patro- 
 nised. Long before the train moved our compartment 
 was full ; as we were on the point of starting a red-faced 
 country girl entered breathlessly, dragging two small 
 boys in her wake. A glance round showed that we were 
 a motley, heterogeneous group, strongly differing as 
 regards mental and corporeal tastes. In one corner a 
 man in a Norfolk suit read the Sporting Times with 
 avidity and smoked a briar — occupations so distasteful 
 to the old lady at his elbow that she relieved her feelings, 
 more than once, with copious draughts of brandy from a 
 flask, which so assuaged her resentment that she presently 
 asked the offender if we had passed Raydon. The two 
 boys ate apples ; the country girl had provided candy 
 for the journey ; two older damsels, whose talk revealed 
 them as housemaids on their way to Ipswich, partook 
 of biscuits, and passed the bag freely among the com- 
 pany. Never before, “ in all my wanderings in this 
 world of care,” had I met such open defiance of the 
 
222 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 conventionalities. On our own confession, only two had 
 met before ; yet we conversed indiscriminately, with 
 less constraint than is often obvious between old acquaint- 
 ances. Moreover, like the party in Macaulay’s poem, 
 “ we all of us talked at a time,” and I fear we said little 
 to edification. I left the train at Bentley without a 
 pang. 
 
 An open, flat country, bright with a hundred species 
 of wild flowers, stretches from Bentley to Brantham, a 
 village near Catawade Bridge. Here park-like features 
 take the eye ; here the land is more suggestive of the 
 Essex marshes, a few miles to the south-east ; the railway 
 from Manningtree to Ipswich divides the whole. I saw 
 yellow toadflax climbing everywhere above the ripening 
 blackberries ; tiny watercourses, intersecting here and 
 there, were set about with forget-me-not and yellow 
 flea-bane ; old sleepers from the line, lichen-grown and 
 worn, did duty for foot-bridges. In places, the autumnal 
 hawkbit looked from the drier banks into the sparkling 
 water ; in places, a graceful beech afforded a welcome 
 shelter, very restful to the eye at this season when the 
 flora is almost uniformly yellow. Among those water- 
 courses lurked moorhens ; I startled one from a large 
 clump of forget-me-nots, standing like a blue-topped 
 islet in the stream. 
 
 I wished to reach Brantham Church early in the after- 
 noon, so, coming out upon the Manningtree road, I 
 entered the village sooner than I expected, nor paused 
 till I reached the bridge that crosses the railway, whence 
 there is a fine view over the quays at Manningtree and 
 Mistley. To me, the prospect was of peculiar interest ; 
 for there I had loitered on the first day of my ramble. 
 
AT BRANTHAM 
 
 223 
 
 Now, as then, the waters of the Stour were low ; the 
 gables of Manningtree were ruddy in the sunshine, and 
 golden the newly piled corn-ricks in the Suffolk fore- 
 ground. Beneath, on the railway embankment, a man 
 in a striped shirt and yellow corduroys leaned against a 
 timber shanty, enjoying a quiet pipe — so obviously in a 
 brown study that I doubt if he perceived me on the 
 bridge. Far to the left, the sails of a windmill were 
 clearly relieved against the sky ; farther still, a brown- 
 sailed barge, apparently off Wrabness, was the only 
 large craft within sight. 
 
 Fortune favoured me ; I found the Rector of Brant- 
 ham in his church ; and he indicated some features of 
 interest. First, there is a well-preserved Constable. 
 This, painted in 1804, was originally an altar-piece, but 
 is now on the south wall, near the font. Like the altar- 
 piece at Nayland, it is seldom mentioned by any critic 
 except in terms of disparagement ; Mr. C. J. Holmes 
 has called it “ a feeble imitation of West’s religious 
 works ” ; Lord Windsor considers it “ of no account ” ; 
 Mr. Brock- Arnold writes that it “ is devoid of merit 
 beyond a creditable arrangement of the masses.” I 
 cannot think the picture so bad as the critics would have 
 us believe : I do not deny that it does little credit to 
 Constable ; but I am convinced, with the Rector of 
 Brantham, that it is unduly depreciated. It depicts 
 Christ blessing little children, and is at least sympathetic 
 in conception and soft in tone. All the figures are 
 standing, save a small child on the left arm of the Saviour, 
 who holds it with an obviously endearing grasp. An 
 older child stands before Him. The remaining figures 
 perhaps represent grandsire, sire, mother, and two 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 224 
 
 grown daughters, and seem skilfully disposed. A mother 
 is naturally no unbiased commentator on her son’s work, 
 in literature or in art ; but we need not ignore Mrs. 
 Golding Constable’s opinion that the infant depicted 
 on the Brantham altar-piece was more delightful to her 
 eyes and thoughts than a picture which she had seen by 
 West. Concerning this early work of Constable’s, I 
 heard an anecdote from the lips of the rector ; I believe 
 that anecdote has never been published, but he has 
 kindly permitted me to repeat it here. A lady, until 
 recently living in the neighbourhood of Brantham, was 
 niece to her whom Constable painted on the extreme 
 right of his canvas. The rector — thinking the fact of 
 interest to students of Constable’s pictures, and thinking, 
 too, that they might wish to hear the details of the story — 
 asked this lady to prepare a written statement. This 
 she repeatedly refused to do ; but at length promised 
 that if the rector would write it from her dictation she 
 would sign it. A few days later she died, leaving the 
 promise unfulfilled. The omission is to be deplored ; 
 for such a statement might have thrown much light 
 upon Constable’s methods, and might have preserved 
 some of his conversation, as he probably knew the lady 
 intimately. 
 
 This little church, on a beautifully wooded hillside, is 
 dedicated to St. Michael. The churchyard is entered 
 through handsome lych-gates — a feature more rare in 
 Suffolk than in Hertfordshire or in several other counties. 
 Built of green oak a few years ago, they are likely to 
 outlast many adjacent structures ; the sexton pointed 
 out the floriated decorations as being finely executed, 
 and I did not withhold admiration. The rector drew 
 
AT BRANTHAM 
 
 225 
 
 my attention to the list of his predecessors ; the first,. 
 Hugo Waleys, was here before the year 1300; and the 
 following century opens with the names of John de Kent,, 
 Peter de Brampton, and Robert de Clifton. I cannot 
 trouble readers with the names of the subsequent thirty- 
 four, to whom was committed the cure of souls at Brant- 
 ham ; but may mention that one of them was Dr. 
 Rhudde, whom I wrote of at East Bergholt. He was 
 rector here from 1782 to 1819. 
 
 Poring upon that list, I could but reflect, as I have 
 done elsewhere, on the scarcity of personal narratives 
 prior to comparatively recent times. Books, we often 
 think, are only too plentiful ; but many of them can 
 only be termed books by courtesy. Autobiographies, of 
 reasonable merit as works of art or as records, are scarce 
 enough ; and that scarcity is deplorable in the eyes 
 of many. How much, for instance, should we appreciate 
 the story of John of Kent, or Peter of Brampton, from 
 their own pen, if comparable in human interest to the 
 narratives of Brainerd, or Bunyan, or Newton. For 
 consider ; these men, and their immediate successors, 
 take us back in thought to the reigns of Edward II. and 
 III. and Richard II., when the Church of England was 
 in an interesting if unsatisfactory condition, and these 
 rectors of Brantham could have set down many strange 
 stories of those dark days — stories of greed and benevo- 
 lence, of cruelty and kindness, of open wickedness and 
 of unobtrusive piety. They might have recorded much 
 of interest concerning the services of the church in which 
 they ministered ; and some mute, inglorious Milton of 
 Catawade or Brantham might at least have left his 
 name to posterity in the annals of his parson. What 
 
22 6 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 did the rectors of this ancient parish think of the scandals 
 passed from man to man concerning the Knights Tem- 
 plars ; of the triumph of Bruce over their own weaker 
 King ; of Wycliffe ; of the “ two cardinals ” ; of the 
 statutes against Papal jurisdiction and patronage ; of 
 Wat Tyler ; of the Lollards ? We do not know, for, as a 
 whole, they were little troubled by the cacoethes scribendi , 
 and most of them are known to us by name only. Again, 
 as at Bures, we regret the lacking annals of a parish. 
 
 Defoe, in a book from which I have already quoted, 
 alludes to a day of excitement and strife in which the 
 men of Brantham must have shared. In the “ Diary of 
 the Siege and Blockade of Colchester,” which he in- 
 cluded in his “ Tour through the Eastern Counties of 
 England,” we read that on June 17, 1648, Sir Charles 
 Lucas rode out of Colchester with twelve hundred horse, 
 sending parties towards Harwich and elsewhere in search 
 of provisions. The foray was not so successful as it 
 might have been ; for the Parliamentarians had soldiers 
 in south-east Suffolk, and these, passing into Essex over 
 Catawade Bridge, successfully resisted the Royalists in 
 the neighbourhood of Manningtree. It is but a few 
 minutes’ walk from Brantham Church to the present 
 Catawade Bridge ; and we can fancy how local folk 
 watched those soldiers as they crossed the river, or 
 loitered, expectant of stirring news, on the north bank 
 of the Stour, as Suffolk men and women did on the 
 several occasions when they heard the cannon thunder 
 in naval encounters off Harwich. 
 
 The village of Brantham is little more than a sprinkle 
 of cottages parted by the railway, a forge, a post-office, 
 and an inn — which we will call The Cow. This last 
 
AT BRANTHAM 
 
 227 
 
 stands at the parting of the ways from Manningtree, 
 from Stutton, and from Bentley, and as I fastened back 
 the parlour door to admit the sweet Suffolk air, I reflected 
 that even so quiet a spot was, so to say, a centre of life. 
 The persons that enter Brantham by those thoroughfares 
 are as three tributaries of information, contributing, 
 day by day, to the knowledge of its inhabitants. They 
 exemplify the truth that many can help one, for whilst, 
 between them, they bring so much news into the village, 
 they can take but little from it, Brantham having little 
 to give. Hence, if you journey here from Manningtree 
 or Ipswich, you may pour your budget of news into very 
 eager ears ; but returning to town, you can tell nothing 
 that shall interest one man in fifty. 
 
 I discovered, as I sat in the inn parlour, that I was 
 closely watched by an old woman from a cottage oppo- 
 site. She was prepared, I saw, to take full advantage 
 of that open door ; had she owned opera-glasses she 
 would have known no deeper bliss. I was a stranger in 
 the village ; perhaps a wanderer from a far country ; 
 perhaps a convict in disguise ; perhaps a detective from 
 London or Ipswich. She made ludicrous efforts to follow 
 my proceedings closely ; now she came to her doorway ; 
 now she peered across the road from above the geraniums 
 in her window ; she even climbed her staircase in order, 
 as I supposed, the better to see into the parlour of The 
 Cow. Each of these movements was essayed several 
 times, until, as it was growing dusk, I sauntered into the 
 open road to smoke. This was too much. Curious as 
 she was touching my appearance and pastimes, she had 
 no desire to be addressed by the unknown. As I crossed 
 the opposite threshold she promptly shut her door, and 
 
228 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 I saw her no more until the following morning. Then, 
 sure enough, she was early at the post of observation, 
 whence she watched my breakfasting and the prepara- 
 tions for my departure with surprising persistence. 
 Indeed, I began to feel as one under a disconcerting 
 surveillance, and was so conscious of her attentions that 
 I failed to enjoy, as I might otherwise have done, the 
 strains of an harmonium and the voice of a young woman 
 in a cottage near by, where “ Shall we gather at the 
 River ? ” had been chosen for the Sunday morning hymn. 
 I have since wondered whether all who pass that cottage 
 are subjected to a like scrutiny, and whether that old 
 dame is yet decided as to my own trade or profession. 
 For aught I know, she may love the Scriptures dearly ; 
 but I will hazard a guess that the Book of Proverbs is not 
 her favourite portion. 
 
 A lane, rough-rutted and winding, leads from the bridge 
 at Brantham to the north foreshore of the Stour estuary. 
 It is one of those lanes that have provoked controversy 
 as to their origin. White, in the “ Natural History of 
 Selborne,” refers to two lanes in the neighbourhood of 
 that village, somewhat similar in character, although on 
 a larger scale. “ These roads,” he says, “ running 
 through the malm lands, are, by the traffic of ages, worn 
 down through the first stratum of our freestone and 
 partly through the second ; so that they look more like 
 water-courses than roads. ... In many places they 
 are reduced sixteen or eighteen feet beneath the level 
 of the fields ; and after floods, and in frosts, exhibit 
 very grotesque and wild appearances, from the tangled 
 roots that are twisted among the strata and from the 
 torrents rushing down their broken sides.” Allowing 
 
AT BRANTHAM 
 
 229 
 
 for geological differences between Hampshire and 
 Suffolk, the origin of such steep lanes is still perplexing, 
 despite the off-hand assurance of physiographical theorists. 
 In the present case I have a suspicion that the wit of 
 man did something to assist the work of Nature — a 
 suspicion suggested by Mr. S. Baring Gould’s volume on 
 “ Cornwall.” In a chapter on smuggling, the author 
 suggests, plausibly enough, that the deeply trenched 
 paths leading inland from Cornish coves were artificially 
 cut in order to facilitate the secret conveyance of contra- 
 band goods. The lane to Brantham may have been at 
 least deepened for the same purpose ; for many a smuggled 
 keg or bale was landed between Catawade and Shotley 
 Gate, as between Harwich and Manningtree on the oppo- 
 site bank of the Stour. Once in the lane the smuggling- 
 band, who loved darkness, could with difficulty be espied 
 or heard by the preventive men, and if they encountered 
 them in the lane itself the scuffle might be of uncertain 
 issue. By daybreak these “ run ” goods would be dis- 
 tributed over a large area, and the kegs that came up 
 the Stour with the tide would lie in twenty villages and 
 towns the following night. All this is largely conjecture ; 
 but I fancy that Suffolk patriarchs, who remember 
 yarns heard at their fathers’ knees, would tell vou my 
 conjecture lies very near the truth. 
 
 I noticed, in that deep and sinuous lane, immense 
 bushes of common wormwood, so plentiful elsewhere in 
 Suffolk. The natives call it mugwort, a name, I believe, 
 usually restricted to the artimisia vulgaris , an allied but 
 distinct plant. Out on the water-freckled estuary, at 
 low tide, the botanist often spends a happy hour, return- 
 ing richly laden with spoils for the herbarium. But I 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 230 
 
 am not a botanist, and can only add that the sea-holly 
 is conspicuous there ; I saw one large clump with drifted 
 seaweed tangled about its roots. There, too, grows the 
 wild mulberry, and sea-samphire is so plentiful that it is 
 largely gathered for pickling. Over all this lonely 
 stretch of estuary the gulls wailed plaintively as I watched 
 them from behind a bank of turf, one by one dropping 
 to snatch some morsel that caught its keen eye. Stream- 
 lets, creeping landwards with the turning tide, sang 
 like raindrops on a pool as they wandered among a 
 thousand muddy channels, lapping at length the tufts 
 and tussocks of the firmer fringe. Two boys, having 
 waded into deeper waters, were deftly catching dabs 
 with their fingers, and throwing the little captives some 
 distance before them, where the slapping and jumping 
 fishes were watched, with demonstrative attentions, by 
 a yelping terrier. The boys told me that they often 
 caught numbers of these fish by driving them into 
 narrow channels and damming the water behind. Need 
 I add that they deemed it excellent sport ? 
 
 A little farther eastwards I reached a spot by the 
 riverside that has its tragic story. Here, faced by sunken 
 and rotting piles, stands a deserted and partly dismantled 
 mill — a gaunt and sorry monument of a bygone age, and 
 all that is left of a hopeful investment. It was abandoned 
 to the care of time many years ago ; but its larger timbers 
 still stand, and much of its machinery remains. The 
 large fly-wheel hangs now as when it whirred indus- 
 triously, still exquisitely balanced and adjusted ; but 
 rust has bitten deeply into its once smooth face, and 
 spiders stretch their webs from spoke to spoke. The 
 windows are mostly smashed ; the roof, in places, has 
 
AT BRANTHAM 
 
 231 
 
 quite collapsed. Close by stands another deserted 
 structure, which I supposed was the miller’s home. 
 The story runs that some fifty years ago the mill was 
 worked by a man whose name was Death ; here, on a 
 day still fresh in the minds of many, he carefully hanged 
 himself, whether in the mill or mill-house my informant 
 had forgotten. The deserted mill, the sky behind 
 showing through the boardless spaces on its walls ; the 
 lonely foreshore ; the voice of the wind among the trees ; 
 the wailing of the gulls, and the thought of that suicide 
 imparted an eerieness to the spot, and I sympathised, at 
 the time, with a girl who assured me it was haunted. 
 Our sense of the supernatural is easily touched to the 
 quick under the influence of time and place, and I know 
 no reason why we should be less sensitive in the open 
 country than in the tapestried chamber, provided the 
 local legends be equally gruesome. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 BESIDE THE ORWELL 
 
 “ Whatever else you miss, don’t miss the Tattingstone 
 Wonder. You’ve seen strange things in your time, the 
 same as I have, but you haven’t seen anything so strange 
 as that.” Thus, as nearly as I remember, ran the advice 
 of a tall, lank man in Brantham village, who expressed 
 much interest in my rambles. From him I suffered 
 severe cross-examination as to my mode of life ; and he 
 kindly expressed the opinion that to “ loaf about in the 
 country for weeks on end ” was to pass one’s time very 
 agreeably. He inquired minutely touching my future 
 route, and strongly urged me to visit certain villages 
 that he named. But after each burst he returned to one 
 sovereign recommendation. He allowed that I might 
 visit such a village or hamlet, or avoid it, as I pleased, 
 but I must not turn aside from the Tattingstone Wonder. 
 Questioned as to the nature of this “ wonder,” he replied 
 by sagacious nods and winks and by slight hints that it 
 was a kind of ruin, its origin being wrapped in mystery. 
 
 I found, on inquiry, that I might visit Tattingstone 
 without seriously lengthening my journey to Pin Mill, so 
 I decided to follow the advice so persistently tendered. 
 A pleasant road, bordered here and there with such 
 wormwood as I had seen in the deep lane, led me past 
 Stutton Hall, a fair homestead dating from the reign of 
 
BESIDE THE ORWELL 
 
 233 
 
 Elizabeth, but modernised to suit the taste or require- 
 ments of successive inmates. The Hall is near Stutton 
 village, where the people showed me much kindness, 
 divulging their private concerns with a frankness em- 
 barrassing to the listener. At Stutton I stayed so long 
 gossiping with the villagers that morning was well 
 advanced before I struck into the footpath through the 
 corn which was to lead me to the Tattingstone Wonder. 
 I crossed fields where oats, heavy and plump in grain, 
 had been cut a day or two before ; and threaded my 
 way through a lane where clumps of bracken grew so 
 strong as to half choke the brambles with which they 
 were inextricably mixed. Acorns were almost ripe on the 
 pollarded oaks that shaded the lane ; thousands of hare- 
 bells adorned the banks ; and the sound of the five bells 
 of Tattingstone came crisply on the breeze. 
 
 Presently, looking over the hedge, I saw, as I supposed, 
 the tower of some village church. It was a flint-faced 
 tower of average height, with graduated battlements. 
 On closer inspection, however, I saw what appeared a 
 small church converted into three cottages, the pointed 
 windows on its northern side being utilised, unaltered, 
 by the inmates. The roof of the three cottages was 
 continuous, and sloped upwards until it rested against 
 the south wall of a pseudo-nave ; but the south wall of 
 the tower had been pulled down, or had never been 
 built. Thus, on the one side, you may see, as you walk 
 round this architectural curiosity, three cottages in no 
 way different from a thousand others, with a profusion 
 of flowers in their few feet of garden and in their church- 
 like windows. But passing to the south you see the wall 
 of a church, composed largely of flint, and carried so 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 234 
 
 high that from this side nothing can be seen of any 
 cottages. Travelling past rapidly, you would suppose it 
 a partially ruined church, but if the local legend speaks 
 truly it was never a church, nor was ever intended for 
 such. It is told how, many years ago, “ Old Squire 
 White ” declared that his neighbours often wondered 
 at nothing, and determined to provide them with some- 
 thing to wonder at after his death. So he built this 
 strange anomaly ; on the south a church, on the north, 
 three cottages and a tower. Naturally enough, the 
 inhabitants of Tattingstone and its neighbourhood have 
 wondered ever since ; some, like the man at Brantham, 
 have desired others to wonder also. Doubting the truth 
 of this story, I wrote to the Rev. Charles L. B. Elliott, 
 the present Rector of Tattingstone, who very kindly 
 replied that he believed the building to be of no archaeo- 
 logical or historic interest. Moreover, he referred me to 
 White’s “ Suffolk ” (4th edition, page 608), where we 
 read that Tattingstone Place “ was purchased about the 
 middle of the last (eighteenth) century by Thomas 
 White, Esq., who rebuilt it and erected near it an orna- 
 mental building in the form of a church, commonly called 
 ‘ Tattingstone Wonder.’ ” Nobody on the spot knew 
 more than this ; the smaller folk had “ heard tell ” much 
 about it ; a strapping youth, with rosy lady-love upon 
 his arm, could not “ justly say ” why the Wonder was 
 built thus ; whilst an old country-woman, crossing the 
 adjacent field with a large Bible under her arm, answered 
 never a word to my inquiry. But the five bells continued 
 to call from Tattingstone tower, so I turned my back 
 upon the inexplicable and followed a very serpentine road 
 until I reached the village. Here, however, although 
 
View on the Orwell, near Ipswich. 
 

BESIDE THE ORWELL 
 
 235 
 
 old cottages and picturesque gardens are abundant, 
 I found nothing to set me scribbling, and was after- 
 wards pleased to notice that others had been equally 
 unsuccessful. Mr. Dutt, in his “ Little Guide ” to 
 which most Suffolk ramblers now owe so much, remarks 
 merely that Tattingstone is “ a rather large village, with 
 a church chiefly in the Decorated style, but with some 
 Perpendicular portions and modern windows. The 
 font is E.E.” I wished to consult the list of rectors, 
 if such existed ; but the congregation was already 
 chanting the Psalms ; the south door stood open, and 
 I did not choose to divert the attention of the devout. 
 
 I had promised to lunch at Stutton Street, so returned 
 thither post-haste, and, having taken leave of my ac- 
 quaintances of a day, set my face towards Holbrook. 
 My way led me past spots where, looking between trees, 
 I saw enticing prospects of the wider Stour between 
 Mistley and Parkstone Quay. Giant burdocks stood 
 sentinel by the wayside. The scenery was yet more 
 lovely as I approached Holbrook. The road, winding 
 and undulating, was shaded by interlacing arms of oaks. 
 Narrow lanes, little trodden by the foot of man, left 
 the high road at right-angles ; I should like to explore 
 them all when time permits. Yet a little farther, and 
 on my left, the houses of Holbrook were scattered over 
 the crest of a w r ooded slope. At the spot where I paused 
 to enjoy the prospect an army of red campions peeped 
 at me from their ambuscade among the nettles ; a wood- 
 pigeon was calling somewhere below, in a little boscage 
 of beech-trees ; gorgeous red-admirals sailed up and 
 down in the bright sunshine of early afternoon. Yet a 
 little farther again, and I looked down upon sheep resting 
 
236 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 in green pastures, upon a delicious expanse of greenery 
 and sylvan loveliness, and then upon Holbrook Mill and 
 the stream that joins the Stour at Holbrook Bay. On 
 the wider stream that expands before the bridge a swan 
 was “ oaring her way in stately majesty,” and water- 
 lilies shook their heads as she passed. Ivy has mounted 
 to the top of that old brick bridge. Near it the stream 
 is parted by a strip of lawn, set about with pink roses, 
 clearly reflected in the water. It is like a spot described 
 in a sonnet by Wordsworth : 
 
 An old place, full of many a lovely brood, 
 
 Tall trees, green arbours, and ground flowers in flocks ; 
 
 And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks. 
 
 Such place to me is sometimes like a dream 
 
 Or map of the whole world ; thoughts, link by link, 
 
 Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam 
 Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink, 
 
 And leap at once from the delicious stream. 
 
 On the hilltop, looking down upon the mill and upon 
 the Stour, stands Holbrook Church, its massive tower 
 covered with ivy almost to the summit of the battle- 
 mented angle-turret. In that church is an altar-tomb 
 to John Clenche, a judge who died in 1607, and was 
 therefore, I suppose, the “good judge Clenche” of 
 Queen Elizabeth, who married a noted heiress and 
 settled at Hollesley, near Orford Haven on the Suffolk 
 coast. Above the tomb are the reclining effigies of 
 Clenche and his wife ; at the head and feet kneel the 
 figures of their eight daughters and seven sons. 
 
 Some huge pines, which Ruskin would have praised 
 and Turner would have loved to paint, crown a hilltop 
 near Holbrook Church. One, as nearly as I could 
 
BESIDE THE ORWELL 
 
 237 
 
 estimate, was seven feet in girth at my own height 
 from the ground ; others were about the same size. 
 Constable seldom introduced pines in his landscapes ; 
 preferring, as his larger pictures prove, trees of fuller 
 and softer foliage, which he probably deemed more truly 
 characteristic of English landscape scenery. For although 
 we have many pines in southern England, particularly 
 in Surrey and Hampshire, and although their beauty as 
 features in a landscape is appreciated to the full by no 
 less an artist than B. W. Leader, we hardly regard the 
 pine as a typical English tree. The willow and the elm, 
 so plentiful in the neighbourhood of his early home, 
 appealed to Constable more strongly — a fact which we 
 readily perceive whether we look upon his many finished 
 pictures or his even more numerous sketches. I question, 
 moreover, whether he had studied the pine as he had 
 studied some other trees. Writing from memory, I 
 doubt whether he ever executed a study of the pine at all 
 comparable, in botanical fidelity or artistic thoroughness, 
 to his well-known Study of the Stem of an Elm- tree, 
 a fine oil sketch which I recently admired at South 
 Kensington. 
 
 I could have slept beneath the shadow of those pines — 
 the air was so soft, the scent of those trees so fragrant, 
 the relaxation of limb and muscle so soothing after 
 sterner exercise on open road and stony footpath under 
 an August sun. But I was nearing the end of my journey. 
 I was to bid farewell to Suffolk folk and scenes on the 
 morrow, and I hoped to pass the evening pleasantly at 
 Pin Mill beside the Orwell. So I bestirred myself once 
 again, and continued my way among the late honey- 
 suckle which festooned the hedges thereabouts, and 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 238 
 
 presently met with an incident novel in my experience. 
 Having quietly approached a stile, I leaned over it for 
 some time, looking for the famous Freston tower, which 
 I could not see. Then, vaulting the stile, I alighted in 
 the very midst of a covey of partridges. The covey was 
 unusually large, for I counted twenty birds, and sports- 
 men to whom I afterwards related the incident shared 
 my surprise that I could approach so closely ere the 
 birds rose. As a boy I often stalked partridges in Hert- 
 fordshire, getting the field side of the hedge when I saw 
 them in a lane, and sometimes approaching near enough 
 to observe their movements ; but never before had I 
 actually stood in the centre of a covey. I fancy my 
 Holbrook adventure is equally foreign to the experience 
 of others. 
 
 Chapel folk were singing lustily as I strolled through 
 the village of Chelmondiston — a village long beloved of 
 smugglers, scattered over the sloping west bank of the 
 Orwell. The Orwell, as I was reminded, has been called 
 “ the English Rhine ” ; I do not know whether the 
 Germans smile at the comparison. Turning to the left 
 at “ Orwell Cottages ” I reached a gully-like depression, 
 which, after declining gradually for a few hundred yards, 
 opens out to the quayside at Pin Mill, where the Ipswich 
 and Harwich steamers slacken speed to lift passengers 
 from the dingey or to hand them into it. On the bed 
 of that gully stood cottages, almost hidden among fruit- 
 trees ; their long gardens sloping upwards to the road 
 that flanks the gully on its southern side. On the fore- 
 shore is an inn named The Butt and Oyster, where 
 you may find excellent opportunities of studying two 
 interesting classes of men — the yachtsman and the 
 
BESIDE THE ORWELL 
 
 239 
 
 bargee. For Pin Mill is, in its way, an important little 
 riverside port ; usually pervaded by an atmosphere of 
 ideal quiet and seclusion, but at times displaying bustle 
 and stir sufficient to please the most exacting adventurer. 
 
 It was said by them of old time that men, as a last 
 resource, would often “ buy a birch and set up school- 
 master,” thereby hoping to end their days in a genteel 
 occupation, teaching the young idea how to shoot. Such 
 a tendency is no longer among us ; it was already dying 
 when Lamb penned his delightfully desultory essay, 
 “ The Old and the New Schoolmaster.” My own ex- 
 perience has brought me rather into contact with men 
 who, in early life, followed a variety of trades ; but as 
 years increased they retired to a country inn, deeming 
 themselves happy “ to have ’scaped the Stygian flood ” 
 of a noisier and more contentious world, and hoping, “ by 
 their own recovered strength,” to enjoy life heartily 
 for awhile yet. One such I met at Pin Mill — one who 
 will not murmur if I relate a few memories of himself 
 and of his home ; for my promise to do as much was 
 received with the utmost good humour. My remarks 
 will at least be dictated by gratitude, for I passed in his 
 company a few of the pleasantest hours of my life. 
 
 Mine host of The Butt and Oyster had been a 
 public singer of repute in Ipswich and a dealer in the 
 antique in that fine old town. His home resembled a 
 museum of art rather than a waterside inn. His walls 
 were hung with paintings and prints, some rare and 
 choice, and he believed himself the possessor of originals 
 by Constable and Gainsborough — a point to which I 
 must return. Even the common bar was adorned with 
 steel engravings from Wilkie ; here hung The Rent Day , 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 240 
 
 here T he Cut Finger , here The Blind Fiddler , and here 
 The Village Politicians . As I passed from room to room 
 I noted other pictures of interest, of which I name but a 
 few. I noticed a Scene near Ipswich, happily executed 
 by Robert Burroughs, and a riverside piece by Wells. 
 Here, in an upper room, hung a fine old engraving of 
 Rubens’s Waggoner , and another of Wilson’s Ceyx and 
 Alcyone , the original of which the artist was said to have 
 painted “ for a pot of porter and the remains of a Stilton 
 cheese.”* I saw, too, a quaint old print, published in 
 1772, entitled The Victorious Return of the City Militia 
 after storming the Dung-hill and compelling the Garrison to 
 surrender , and Sam. Ward’s more famous Bringing Home 
 the Recruits . 
 
 At the last, my host took from a corner a small land- 
 scape in oils, and, placing it in a good light near the 
 window, propounded a question. “ Now,” said he, “ is 
 this a Constable or is it a Dunthorne ? ” It was, to me 
 at least, a perplexing problem — “ something craggy to 
 break the mind upon,” as Byron once said ; and I re- 
 member little of what passed between us on the subject. 
 I confessed ignorance as to what Dunthorne had painted ; 
 upon which the virtuoso argued that this riverside 
 scene was eminently characteristic of Dunthorne’s work ; 
 but he thought there were points about the sky suggestive 
 of Constable’s brush — hence the dilemma. A dilemma 
 it remained ; for he soon replaced the picture, and, pro- 
 posing a ramble after tea, led me below. Together we 
 passed the hour before sunset in the inn parlour, where 
 our talk was discursive, and subject followed subject 
 
 * There are — as Cunningham pointed out — many variations of this 
 story. 
 
BESIDE THE ORWELL 
 
 241 
 
 with conspicuous inconsequence. Such talk map not 
 be largely profitable, but it is at least wholly pleasant. 
 
 So we rambled awhile beside the Orwell, and “ saw 
 the summer sun go down the sky.” I need hardly say 
 how familiar the district was to Constable, whose power- 
 ful sketch On the Orwell is now at South Kensington. 
 It is characteristic of his more stormy manner — that 
 manner which led Ruskin to affirm that Constable’s 
 showery weather is “ great-coat weather, and nothing 
 more.” The sketch shows a bend in the river, between 
 Pin Mill and Ipswich, over which brood some angry 
 clouds ; a few white gulls are drifting with the wind. 
 A fishing-smack lies in the foreground, canted eastwards 
 at low water ; behind it are two brigs ; while on the 
 left some men are standing before a shore-side doorway. 
 On the right, a windmill is seen on the opposite bank 
 of the river. The sketch was executed late in Constable’s 
 life — many years after the pencil sketches entitled 
 Shipping near Ipswich and Ship-building at Ipswich ; it 
 was engraved by Lucas, and was one of fourteen plates 
 published shortly after the artist’s death. 
 
 We trod in the footsteps of Gainsborough also as we 
 struck inland among the oaks, and stood knee-deep in 
 bracken to watch the deer in Woolverstone Park. “ Gains- 
 borough’s Lane ” is on the east bank of the Orwell, 
 commencing near Ipswich promenade and stretching 
 towards Nacton, where, in 1773, Margaret Catchpole 
 was born in a cottage which still stands and where she 
 worked at the Priory Farm. But the beautifully wooded 
 neighbourhood around Woolverstone and Wherstead 
 and Freston was equally familiar to him ; and it was 
 of Gainsborough my companion spoke as we turned 
 
 Q 
 
242 
 
 IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 homewards in the early twilight. He was not, however, 
 a man of one topic. He pointed out, in the far distance 
 across the Orwell, the old home of the Broke family 
 known as Broke Hall. It is famous as the birthplace of 
 Sir Philip Broke, who, as commander of the Shannon , 
 encountered and captured an American vessel, the 
 Chesapeake , in 1813. The result of the struggle — a 
 prearranged affair — must have been a sad disappointment 
 to the men of Boston ; for although Broke himself was 
 wounded, he subdued his more heavily armed opponent 
 in a quarter of an hour, and the spectators, who had lined 
 the quays to watch his defeat, saw their vessel taken. 
 Adjacent to Broke Hall is Orwell Park, once the home of 
 Armiral Vernon, of even more famous memory, who 
 served with Rooke at Gibraltar, and captured Porto Bello 
 for George II. after losing only seven men ; but failed 
 to seize Cartagena, as readers of “ Roderick Random ” 
 will remember. He was for many years Member for 
 Ipswich, and, dying suddenly at Orwell Park on October 
 30, 1757, was buried in Nacton Church. “ All these 
 are certes interesting facts,” as the poet says in a different 
 connection ; but I did not cross the Orwell, so will 
 leave readers to consult the many books which treat them 
 more fully. The story of Margaret Catchpole, for 
 instance, has been read by thousands in a volume by the 
 Rev. R. Cobbold, sometime Rector of Wortham, in the 
 north of Suffolk. 
 
 That night, when all our stories were told, when the 
 yachtsmen had gone on board and the bargees had sought 
 their beds, I sat at the open window to enjoy the cool- 
 ness of the hour. The tide was creeping almost to the 
 wall below ; there was light enough for me to discern 
 
BESIDE THE ORWELL 
 
 243 
 
 “ tender curving lines of creamy spray ” and to trace 
 the outlines of a few craft coming up the Orwell with the 
 tide. The last sounds I heard were the passing of a 
 steamer bound for Ipswich and the voice of my host and 
 art critic as he wished “ to each and all a last good 
 night.” 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF HARWICH 
 
 The Church of St. Mary at Erwarton, near Shotley Gate, 
 was my one resting-stage as I journeyed from Pin Mill 
 towards Harwich. The church stands on a beautifully 
 wooded slope, looking down over Erwarton Bay. From 
 that slope I saw the Stour sparkle while it was yet early 
 morning, and beyond there opened out a prospect often 
 admired — the view of Harwich and of Parkstone Quay 
 from the north, where the Stour and the Orwell meet. 
 Some monuments in Erwarton Church are older than 
 the building itself, for they were in a former sanctuary. 
 They are to the memory of members of the Daviller 
 family, who, for aught I know, once wore those ancient 
 helmets which I noticed near the pulpit. I saw, too, an 
 inscription concerning Sir Philip Parker, a descendant 
 by marriage of “ Amata Bolleyn,” aunt to the unfor- 
 tunate Queen of that name. Anne Boleyn is often men- 
 tioned at Erwarton ; for, many years ago, a casket shaped 
 like a heart was discovered in the church wall, and is now 
 in a vault beneath the organ. The discovery is usually 
 associated with a tenaciously cherished legend. It is 
 believed that Anne Boleyn wished her heart to be interred 
 here — for reasons never divulged. I have met with a 
 similar story at East Horndon in Essex, where the heart 
 of that Queen is said to lie in an altar-tomb in All Saints’ 
 
THE ROMANCE OF HARWICH 
 
 245 
 
 Church. Few readers will care to decide between the 
 rival claimants. 
 
 The lane that wound downwards to Erwarton Ba y 
 tempted me to loiter, and it was long ere I came out 
 upon the foreshore. The place smelt strongly of the 
 sea. Hardly a cloud moved across the sky ; the pigeons 
 that fluttered out from the wooded banks, to bathe in 
 the standing pools, stretched their wings as though en- 
 joying the coolness of the water and the morning 
 breeze. Farther eastward, more nearly opposite to 
 Parkstone, the high-water line was edged with flower- 
 ing rush and bracken and set with low, twisted oaks, 
 perhaps dwarfed by the salt water that soaks their 
 roots. Hardly a sound reached my ears from the ships 
 that lay off Parkstone Quay ; but a dredger rattled 
 and clanked not far from Shotley ferry, and there 
 was an intermittent thunder of guns from Landguard 
 Fort. 
 
 Sturdy arms gave long and strong pulls as they drew 
 me from the ferry pier towards Harwich. As we moved 
 away, a passenger pointed out the new barracks above 
 Shotley Spit, building for the accommodation of sixteen 
 hundred boys ; then we ducked under the bows of the 
 training-ship Ganges ; then evaded the old coal-hulk ; 
 and as we approached Harwich the ferry-man waxed 
 eloquent concerning several gunboats, and showed the 
 South Godwin lightship in the offing. Almost before 
 I realised it I was standing beside the steamboat ticket 
 offices, surrounded by the chatter and confusion 
 incidental to the departure of a steamer ; and I felt, 
 with no great pleasure, that once again I had parted for 
 awhile with old churches and inns and village folk, and 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 246 
 
 was nearing the more prosaic experiences of life in larger 
 and more busy centres. 
 
 “ Harwich is a town so well known and so perfectly 
 described by many writers, I need say little of it. It is 
 strong by situation, and may be made more so by art. 
 It is known for being the port where the packet-boats, 
 between England and Holland, go out and come in.” 
 So wrote Defoe, in language which may stand unaltered 
 to-day ; although the mail steamers, that pass in the 
 night to Antwerp and the Hook of Holland, now start 
 from Parkstone Quay, as they have done since 1883. 
 Defoe, I am afraid, fell among thieves during his visit 
 here ; for he wrote that the inhabitants were “ far from 
 being famed for good usage to strangers,” being “ extra- 
 vagant in their reckonings in the public-houses ” — a 
 custom hardly peculiar, then or now, to the men of 
 Harwich. It is amusing to find so old a writer lamenting 
 the good old days when the town prospered and flourished. 
 He mentions that much passenger traffic had been diverted 
 from Harwich to the Thames ; and that the stage- 
 coaches which formerly plied between here and London 
 “ twice or three times a week ” were entirely suspended, 
 travellers being forced to hire a coach privately or to 
 travel via Colchester and thence onwards in any other 
 way most convenient to themselves. Could Defoe 
 visit Harwich to-day he might hear equally dismal if 
 dissimilar complaints * but he might perhaps reflect 
 that had the town decayed with equal rapidity during 
 the interim it would long ago have been as completely 
 overwhelmed by its misfortunes as Dunwich by the sea. 
 
 Students of the romance of Harwich should not forget 
 Pepys, who sat in Parliament as its Member from May 
 
THE ROMANCE OF HARWICH 
 
 247 
 
 1685 to July 1687. He met with noisy opposition 
 here at the election which deprived him of his seat, the 
 electors being so discourteous as to allude to his personal 
 misfortunes, and to shout, “ No Tower men, no men out 
 of the Tower.” The garrulous diarist frequently alludes 
 to the town in those innumerable daily jottings which 
 have lightened so many hours. It is Pepys who tells us 
 how Sir William Batten, after urging the uselessness of 
 lighthouses, obtained permission from Charles II. to 
 set one up at Harwich — much to his profit, as Pepys 
 adds with customary freedom of comment. He alludes 
 to the English fleet that lay off Harwich in April 1665, 
 lamenting that we could fit out no other should that 
 be worsted ; later in the month he noted that his chief 
 clerk, William Hewer, had paid off some of those vessels, 
 which numbered above a hundred, “ whom God bless ! ” 
 On June 2 he hears that the fleet has sailed from Sole 
 Bay, “ having spied the Dutch fleet at sea ” ; then, six 
 days later, he records the total rout of the enemy and the 
 death of Van Tromp — which threw the diarist into such 
 joy that he could think of nothing else. On Christmas 
 Eve of that year he received “ four great turkeys ” from 
 his friend “ Mr. Deane at Harwich,” a circumstance 
 which he chronicles with equal gravity. He tells us, 
 among other things, that on June 16, 1666, there fell 
 on Harwich a shower of hailstones as big as walnuts ; 
 that on March 22, 1667, t ^ ie E)uke of York was here 
 discussing and planning the better defence of the harbour ; 
 that in June of the same year Lord Barkeley was sent 
 here to “ look after the Militia ” ; and that in the follow- 
 ing month the Dutch, who had threatened the town, 
 had “ gone clear from Harwich northward,” but presently 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 248 
 
 drew near again in “ great squadrons.” One interesting 
 entry must be repeated in his own words : “ June 4 ? 
 1666. ... I home ; where no sooner come, but news is 
 brought me of a couple of men come to speak with me 
 from the fleet ; so I down, and who should it be but 
 Mr. Daniel, all muffled up, and his face as black as the 
 chimney and covered with dirt, pitch, and tar, and powder, 
 and muffled with dirty clouts, and his right eye stopped 
 with oakum. He is come last night at five o’clock from 
 the fleet, with a comrade of his that hath endangered 
 another eye. They were set on shore at Harwich this 
 morning, and at two o’clock, in a catch (ketch) with 
 about twenty more wounded men from the Royal 
 Charles .” Pepys, I may add, eventually took these 
 seamen before the King, and it was from their lips that 
 Charles II. heard the first substantial account of the 
 fight. 
 
 I do not know whether Constable painted the light- 
 house erected by Sir William Batten, or one built subse- 
 quently. His well-known painting entitled Harwich : 
 Sea and Lighthouse was executed in 1820; it was pre- 
 sented to the National Gallery of British Art in 1888. 
 It is a study rather than a “ picture ” in the common 
 acceptation of the term — a study of sea and sky with 
 shipping in the middle and far distance, and a lighthouse, 
 very primitive in appearance, on the strip of coast shown 
 upon the right. The sky, on the whole, is illustrative 
 of Mr. Brock-Arnold’s remark that “ in most of Con- 
 stable’s skies are masses of soft, warm, grey colour, the 
 edges appearing to be touched with liquid silver ; and 
 through these, far beyond, one catches an occasional 
 glimpse of the blue empyrean. He could not under- 
 
Harwich Sea and Lighthouse. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF HARWICH 
 
 249 
 
 stand the ‘ white sheet ’ theory when his beloved clouds 
 offered such indescribable contrasts of glowing sunbeam 
 and cool shadow.’’ The picture is powerful and broad, 
 rather than exquisite in points of minute detail ; differ- 
 ing from other paintings which could be named as Mr. 
 Joseph Pennell’s drawings of Walberswick differ from 
 similar studies from the pencil of Mr. Herbert Railton. 
 Two pencil sketches of sea and coast at Harwich were 
 drawn by Constable in the autumn of 1815 ; both are 
 now at South Kensington, and are interesting as evi- 
 dences of the subjects that appealed to him when loitering 
 with sketch-book in hand. We may perhaps ask why, 
 knowing so intimately the whole riverside, from Dedham 
 to Harwich, and from Ipswich to Landguard Fort, he 
 selected other scenes for his large pictures. The answer 
 — if I may hazard a guess — is perhaps that his love for 
 the quiet, pastoral scenery of his immediate homeland 
 was so strong that he cared little for other spots a few 
 miles off, however suitable to his art ; but, once away 
 from southern Suffolk, he found such coast scenery very 
 fitted to his purposes — -hence he painted Weymouth 
 Bay, Yarmouth Pier, Brighton Beach, and Waterloo 
 Bridge. In a word, it is remarkable that one who knew 
 half Suffolk so well should have painted so large a number 
 of pictures within five miles from his father’s doorway, 
 leaving two noble river estuaries, hardly more distant, 
 almost unillustrated save for a few sketches. 
 
 At Harwich I heard more talk of Gainsborough than 
 of Constable. It is needless to repeat the well-worn 
 story of his somewhat romantic friendship with Philip 
 Thicknesse, Lieutenant-Governor of Landguard Fort. 
 But we may remember, when sauntering on the beach, 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 250 
 
 how remarkable that friendship was, and how productive 
 of incidents in the neighbourhood. Thicknesse — who 
 had mistaken a painted figure for a living man, and was 
 introduced to Gainsborough as the author of the decep- 
 tion — had seen the artist’s portraits of Admiral Vernon 
 and of Tom Peartree, which he liked on some grounds 
 and disliked on others. The chance introduction led 
 to a further examination of Gainsborough’s work ; his 
 small landscapes were most unreservedly admired, and 
 Thicknesse asked the artist to paint some yachts passing 
 Landguard Fort. For the painting, which was subse- 
 quently engraved, Gainsborough received a few guineas ; 
 it was presently hung upon a damp wall, and perished 
 while its author was yet living. Although Thicknesse 
 was a most eccentric mail, and although the narrative 
 which he wrote shortly after Gainsborough’s death was 
 — as regards the man rather than the artist — little better 
 than a libel, he undoubtedly did much to spread the 
 artist’s reputation. They quarrelled at length, and the 
 origin of their dispute was differently represented by 
 Thicknesse and by Gainsborough’s relatives ; but the 
 story, which largely concerned a lady, a portrait, and 
 a viol-di-gamba , has no immediate connection with 
 Harwich. It has probably been narrated with as many 
 variations as artists practise when portraying worthies 
 on the signboards of wayside inns. The version repeated 
 by Cumberland was communicated to him by one who 
 heard it from Mrs. Gainsborough. 
 
 I heard much concerning Landguard Fort from the 
 lips of one with whom Thicknesse might have fraternised 
 agreeably. He was an officer, whose name concerns 
 nobody and whose appearance I will not describe. But 
 
THE ROMANCE OF HARWICH 251 
 
 to his conversation, infinitely diverting of its kind, I 
 may at least allude. To do him justice, I must premise 
 that he was the soul of generosity, being obviously un- 
 happy unless most of the company were refreshing them- 
 selves at his expense. His spirits rose or fell as his 
 audience increased or diminished ; and his earnestness 
 was measured by the violence with which he smote the 
 table with his fist, after preliminary flourishes more ex- 
 pressive than words. In moments of unusual depression 
 he would chastise an interrupter with a tongue which 
 can hardly have its equal in Harwich ; it was then he 
 showed his metal and rose to the height of his great 
 argument. He had, I divined, taken the British Empire 
 under his wing ; his one topic was concerned with its 
 past, present, and future. The Empire had been won 
 by the Ar-r-my ; every man worth his salt served in 
 the Ar-r-my ; if any man living deserved two compli- 
 mentary adjectives before his name you might take it 
 for granted he had made his mark in the Ar-r-my. The 
 Army was named in every twenty words he uttered. 
 He would remind the waitress, with a kindly wink, that 
 she must pardon his little ways and his familiarities, for 
 he had been in the Army. If you refused a drink he 
 advised enlistment, for in the Army you would learn 
 how to drink like a gentleman. He had, it seemed, a 
 canary in a cage upstairs, and I once heard him rehearsing 
 to that songster the advantages of the Army as a calling 
 in life. To be in his company for an hour was to hear 
 the names of half the officers in several regiments, and 
 to hear them blamed or commended in very trenchant 
 language. I wondered, as I listened to his repeated 
 sallies, whether the Navy had an equally sturdy champion 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 252 
 
 in the town, and whether he could carry all before him 
 as ably as this apologist for the Ar-r-my. If such is 
 the case, the United Services can have no heartier 
 defenders than those in Harwich. 
 
 I owe that officer thanks. Before we parted he urged 
 me to visit the Nelson Museum at the Three Cups 
 Hotel, where, as he phrased it, the people would show 
 me “ the bedroom of Horatio Nelson, my boy, and his 
 
 handwriting, and all that sort of thing, by G ! ” 
 
 So, after much rambling up and down in what Mr. 
 Morrison would call “ mean streets,” I sought out the 
 Three Cups Hotel, and was soon in “ Nelson’s Bedroom ” 
 that looks down upon King’s Quay Street. Other rooms 
 are also associated with memories of the great hero — 
 one, now half hidden by clematis, is over the courtyard, 
 and photographs of it may be bought in the town. I 
 was shown a panel from the Nelson pew at Burnham 
 Thorpe, a punchbowl used at the inn in his day, many 
 old prints relating to the man or his deeds, and a manu- 
 script letter bearing his signature, dated from the Victory 
 at sea on July 1, 1804. Follow where we may in the 
 footsteps of Nelson, we soon learn that the memory of 
 few men is more warmly cherished. At many shrines we 
 are requested to take an interest in the saint ; it is taken 
 for granted that we are interested in Nelson. 
 
 I have alluded to Landguard Fort. It was built in 
 the days of Charles I., and stands, as “ every^schoolboy 
 knows,” on that narrow spit of land which flanks Harwich 
 on its eastern side. Its history has been written by 
 Major Leslie, and I am only concerned here with one 
 interesting episode. In July 1667 the Dutch landed 
 where Felixstowe now stands and essayed to scale the 
 
THE ROMANCE OF HARWICH 
 
 253 
 
 walls of Landguard Fort. But they were successfully 
 beaten off, and only regained their vessels by leaving 
 their ladders behind them. Pepys heard the news at 
 the Council-chamber, and recorded that the Dutch 
 landed three thousand men, but were “ beat off thence 
 with our great guns.” He noted, too, that there were 
 no English horsemen on the Suffolk side of the fort, 
 “ otherwise we might have galled their foot.” The 
 last sentence in that day’s entry in Pepys’ diary is charac- 
 teristic of the times. He mentions that the Duke of 
 York journeyed to Harwich the day after the attack, 
 while the Duke of Albemarle “ sat sleeping this afternoon 
 at the Council-table.” Albemarle had recently been 
 Master of the Horse ; he had shown all his wonted fire 
 and ability during the four days’ fight near Dunkirk ; 
 but he was then in ill-health, and died two years 
 afterwards. 
 
 Few men or women in Harwich now think of George 
 Fox, who embarked here in 1684, on his way to visit the 
 brethren in Holland. He landed at Briel, after a run of 
 sixteen hours ; and, spending several weeks in Holland, 
 he sailed for England “ on the sixteenth day of the fifth 
 month,” and returned safely to Harwich. He was weak 
 in body and excited in mind. At Colchester, just before 
 his voyage, he had been at a “ glorious meeting,” where 
 “ truly the Lord’s power and presence was beyond 
 words ” ; but even then he was deemed too weak for 
 such exercises, and on landing at Harwich after the 
 fatigues of travel he went to the house of his son-in-law, 
 William Mead, “ at Gooses, near Hare Street, to rest 
 and recruit his enfeebled body.” 
 
 The romance of Harwich, in the eyes of young folk, 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 254 
 
 must long have been bound up with its trade in ship- 
 building, formerly more extensive, and in the capture 
 and sale of lobsters and shrimps — always noticeable in 
 the shops. As a fishing town, rather than aught else, 
 I think of Harwich as I first saw it twenty years ago. 
 I had journeyed from London in a crowded train, and 
 as that train toiled slowly through the heart of Essex 
 a wag thrust his head from the window at each station 
 and shouted, “ ’Ere’s ’Arwich.” I knew nothing of the 
 history of the town, and certainly cared little to investi- 
 gate it. I had come toJHarwich for a day’s fresh air, 
 and in the spirit of an adventurer ; and had hardly 
 left the railway station when I hit upon a happy chance. 
 An old man, dressed in a ragged blue jersey, with a face 
 like the carved figure-head of an East Indiaman of the 
 older pattern, was seated upon the quay-side, his legs 
 dangling above the water. I was yet of comparatively 
 tender years, but had notions of my own concerning a 
 bargain. So we wrangled good-humouredly for many 
 minutes before a compact was concluded. He was to 
 sail with me round the Spit to the old landing-stage at 
 Felixstowe ; then back again, and about the mouths of 
 the Orwell and the Stour — in short, I retained his 
 services for the day, and those of his boat. I got the 
 blind side of him betimes, the mere sight of a handful of 
 choice, but exceedingly pungent, cigars bearing more 
 eloquent testimony to my worth than any spoken tribute. 
 But before we could put out to sea he had to buy some- 
 thing for his boat, and I remember walking with him 
 through a back street, noticeable for its surprising odours 
 of fish and tar, for the live fish that moved in shops, and 
 the still livelier crabs that walked as they listed in the 
 
THE ROMANCE OF HARWICH 
 
 255 
 
 public way. Of our day upon the water I remember 
 but little, save that we put into Harwich for a midday 
 meal. I dined at a hotel close to the pier, where a large 
 party had engaged a room aloft and I was nearly squeezed 
 to death on the staircase. I forgot my trouble when, 
 in the golden afternoon, we ran the boat’s nose ashore, 
 somewhere near Walton Ferry, and lay fallow awhile. 
 But our sail towards Harwich, in the early evening, 
 showed me effects of sea and sky which I have never 
 forgotten. Scott, in “ The Lord of the Isles,” penned 
 a few lines literally applicable to that journey : 
 
 Each puny wave in diamonds rolled 
 O’er the calm deep, where hues of gold 
 With azure strove and green. 
 
 The hill, the vale, the tree, the tower, 
 
 Glowed with the tints of evening’s hour, 
 
 The beach was silver sheen ; 
 
 The wind breathed soft as lover’s sigh, 
 
 And, oft renewed, seemed oft to die, 
 
 With breathless pause between. 
 
 O who, with speech of war and woes, 
 
 Would wish to break the soft repose 
 Of such enchanting scene ! 
 
 I parted on excellent terms with that old, cheerful, 
 weather-beaten sailor, who had stores of quaint anecdotes 
 in his mind and even quainter language upon his lips. 
 The more generous among my readers will be glad to 
 know that I gave him the remaining cigars. According 
 to Norden, he must surely have been in his right place ; 
 for writing of Essex that topographer says, “ The sea 
 coaste is here and ther furnished with harbours for 
 shipping, whereof the principall is Harwiche, which is a 
 towne fitlie scytuate for seafaring men.” 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 256 
 
 I did not go into St. Nicholas’ Church. It was rebuilt 
 in 1821, and contains little of interest; but the effigy 
 of “ Sir W. Clark, Kt.,” is preserved, and his name must 
 not be passed by. “ Clerke,” as Pepys writes the name, 
 was sometime Secretary to Monk (afterwards Duke of 
 Albemarle). It was partly from Clerke’s letters that 
 Pepys compiled the narrative which he entitled “ Victory 
 over the Dutch, June 3, 1665,” as he himself acknow- 
 ledged. Clerke was in the fight with De Ruyter in the 
 following year ; there he lost a leg, and dying from the 
 effects of its loss was washed ashore at Harwich after 
 several days. 
 
 I set out upon my rambles in the footsteps of Con- 
 stable ; but they have led me, as so many rambles do, 
 to Dr. Johnson at the last. One evening, at the Turk’s 
 Head Coffee House, Boswell had passed a very pleasant 
 time with his hero ; having — inter alia — given him a 
 description of the “ romantic seat of his ancestors.” 
 Then Boswell referred to his coming journey to Holland, 
 and Johnson exclaimed, “ I must see thee out of England ; 
 I will accompany you to Harwich.” And so, on Friday, 
 August 5, 1763, Johnson and Boswell got into the stage- 
 coach for Harwich, where they conversed agreeably 
 with “ a fat elderly gentlewoman and a young Dutch- 
 man.” In due time they reached Colchester, where 
 Johnson defended torture in Holland, talked of good 
 eating with uncommon satisfaction, discoursed upon 
 behaviour after the Dutchman had gone to bed, and 
 compared Boswell to a moth in the candle. Next day 
 they reached Harwich, where Boswell secured his passage 
 in the packet-boat for Helvoetsluys (where Catriona 
 went), sent his luggage on board, and then dined with 
 
THE ROMANCE OF HARWICH 
 
 257 
 
 Johnson at an inn, which I could wish he had named. 
 Boswell was evidently distressed by the dulness of the 
 town, and expressed the fear that Johnson might be de- 
 tained here, but his companion made light of the topic. 
 After awhile they went into the church, where the 
 stalwart old churchman told Boswell to kneel and to 
 recommend himself to the protection of his Creator 
 and Redeemer. It was here in Harwich, after they came 
 out of the church, that Johnson and Boswell discussed 
 the philosophy of Berkeley — the former, “ striking his 
 foot with mighty force against a large stone,” exclaiming, 
 “ I refute it thus” The rest must be told in Boswell’s 
 words. “ My revered friend walked down with me to 
 the beach, where we embraced and parted with tender- 
 ness and engaged to correspond by letters. I said, ‘ I 
 hope, sir, you will not forget me in my absence.’ John- 
 son : 4 Nay, sir, it is more likely you should forget me 
 than that I should forget you.’ As the vessel put out 
 to sea I kept my eyes upon him for a considerable time, 
 while he remained rolling his majestic frame in his usual 
 manner ; and at last I perceived him walk back into the 
 town, and he disappeared.” 
 
 Thus, in a thousand ways, they all appear and disappear 
 —all those worthy ones who contribute so largely to the 
 pleasure which we derive as we run to and fro upon the 
 earth. For, however interested we may be in the con- 
 figuration of a country or the architecture of a church, 
 the human interest outlives all others and prevails at the 
 last. I felt this more strongly than ever before as I 
 looked back upon Harwich from the steamer that bore 
 me to Felixstowe, and thence to Southend. Even 
 where an imaginary human interest has been created, 
 
IN CONSTABLE’S COUNTRY 
 
 258 
 
 it is more potent than much natural charm : Devon- 
 shire lives most vividly in the pages of Blackmore ; the 
 fortunes of innumerable Scotchmen were made for them 
 by Scott ; and to sojourn at Stratford-on-Avon is to 
 live with Shakespeare. 
 
 The boat that bore me from Constable’s country was 
 built by trusty hands. I can but use a hackneyed phrase ; 
 for truly she “ walked the waters like a thing of life.” A 
 stiff, south-west wind resisted her as we stood well out 
 from the Essex coast, and waves burst over the face of 
 the starboard paddle, drenching the after-deck from 
 end to end. But the sun shone brightly as we neared 
 Walton-on-the-Naze, and the run home was all too 
 short. We noted familiar landmarks as we passed : 
 there were the mouths of the Colne and the Blackwater ; 
 there, or thereabouts, stood the barn-like Chapel of St. 
 Peter-on-the-Wall ; there lay Foulness Island ; there 
 Havengore. Then, as we rounded Shoeburyness, the 
 wooded slopes of Sheppey Isle, clear in the light of early 
 evening, lay off our port quarter ; and more directly 
 ahead we saw Sheerness and the mouth of the Medway, 
 so deftly portrayed in the etchings of Wyllie. Lastly, 
 facing about, we saw the spire of St. Erkenwald’s Church 
 looking down upon “ sunny Southend,” and knew our 
 little voyage concluded. 
 
 The End. 
 
INDEX 
 
 Acton, 147, 157, 158 
 Addison, Joseph, 80 
 “ Adoration of the Magi,” 151 
 iElfric, 22 
 Agatho I., no 
 
 “Agriculture and the Poor,” 13 
 Alabaster, William, 200 
 Aldbury, 183 
 Aid gate, 213 
 
 Aldham, 146, 202, 203, 217-220 
 Alexander II., no 
 Allen, Grant, 20, 39, 186 
 Almack, Richard, 15 1 
 Altar-piece, Brantham, 223, 224 
 Nayland, 88, 89 
 Ancy, John, 22 
 Anne of Bohemia, 139 
 Queen, 81 
 Arbuthnot, J., 81 
 “Arcady,” 172-185 
 Art Journal, The, 21 
 Asser, chronicler, 105, 194 
 Augustine of Canterbury, no 
 Averth, John, 203-206 
 
 Babington, Churchill, 199 
 Bacon, Francis, 102, 170 
 Baldwin of Shimperling, 113 
 Ball, John, 141 
 “Ballad of Bath,” 41 
 Bancroft, Richard, 23 
 Barfolde — See Bergholt, East 
 Barnardiston family, 17 
 Barrie, Dr. J. M., 186 
 Bath, 148 
 
 Batten, Sir W., 247 
 Beaumont family, 201 
 John, 199 
 Beckett, R. A., 30 
 Bede, no 
 
 Belchamp villages, 130, 162 
 Benedictine monks, 114 
 Bentley, J. C., 47 
 
 Berghol-t, East, 14, 19, 24, 26, 30, 
 42, 47, 51-63, 99 
 Berkeley, Bishop, 257 
 Bicknell, Charles, 58 
 Maria, 58 
 
 Bildeston, 18 1, 182 
 Bilney, T., 194 
 Black, William, 160 
 Blackheath, 14 1 
 Blackmore, Sir R., 79-82 
 Bocking, 196 
 Boleyn, Anne, 244 
 Bonner, Bishop, 210, 211 
 “ Book of the Church,” 203 
 “ Book of Sports,” 10 
 Boat-building near Flatford Mill, 40 
 Boston (U.S.A.), 242 
 Boswell, James, 60, 80, 256, 257 
 Bovingdon, 26 
 Bowls, game of, 189, 190 
 Boxted, 74-86 
 Boy dell’s “ Holy Writ,” 169 
 “ Shakespeare,” 168 
 Bradford, John, 209, 211 
 Brailam Hall, 1 1 
 Brainerd, D., 225 
 Brampton, Peter de, 225 
 Brantham, n, 13, 22 1-23 1 
 Brent Eleigh, 17 3- 179 
 Brett, River, 168, 172-184, 187 
 Bridges, Sarah, 78 
 British Critic, The, 90 
 British Museum, 155, 177 
 Brock-Arnold, G. M., 5, 89, 223, 248 
 Broke Hall, 242 
 Sir P., 242 
 
 Bruges, Conference of, 1 8 
 Brunet-Debaines, H., 44 47 
 Bull-baiting, 176, 193 
 Bunyan, John, 165, 169, 25 
 
 Bures, Alice de, 158 
 Hamlet, 101 
 R. de, 157 
 
i6o 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Bures St. Mary, 92-100, 167 ! 
 
 Burger, W., 4 
 Burlington House, 19, 31 
 Burne-Jones, 65 
 
 Burr, Margaret (Mrs. T. Gains- 
 borough), 120, 250 
 Burroughs, Humphrey, 117, 119 
 Robert, 240 
 
 Bury St. Edmunds, 88, 104, 107, 
 109, 113, 145, 146, 154 
 Byrche, William, 199 
 Byron, Lord, 10, 60, 63, 240 
 
 Cambridge, 198, 199, 201 
 Camden, W., 113, 198 
 Canaletti, 197 
 Canterbury, 140, 143 
 Canvey Island, 93 
 Carlyle, Thomas, 74, 104, 111, 146, 
 154, 186 
 
 Carter’s Bounty, 126 
 Cartwright, Thomas, 25 
 Catawade, 11, 12, 229 
 Bridge, 9, 222, 226 
 Catchpole, Margaret, 241, 242 
 Cave, William, 178 
 Cavendish, 18 
 
 Chamberlain, Arthur, 29, 49 
 
 Chantrey, Sir F., 49 
 
 Chapel in the Corn, The, 102-110 
 
 Chapman, John, 22, 26 
 
 Charles I., 154 
 
 II., 183, 247, 248 
 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 22, 87 
 Chelmondiston, 248 
 Chelmsford, 215 
 Chelsworth, 184 
 Christy, Miller, 11 
 Churchyard, T., 167 
 Clare, 17, 69 
 Clark, Sir W., 256 
 Claude Lorraine, 2 
 Clavering, Robert, 199 
 Clayber, Symon de, 152 
 Clement VI., 1 10 
 Clenche, Judge, 236 
 Clerke, John, 204, 205 
 Clifford, Sir Lewis, 139 
 Clifton, Robert de, 225 
 Clink, The, 210 
 
 Clopton family, 150-158, 166, 167 
 Cluniac monks, 83 
 Cobbold, R., 242 
 Cockfield, 199 
 
 Colchester, 8, 26, 161, 169, 226, 246, 
 253. 256 
 
 Coleman, Edward, 177 
 
 Coleridge, S. T., 60, 85, 147, 149 
 Compton, Bishop, 7 
 Conder, Josiah, 17 1 
 Constable, Abram, 28 
 Golding, 27, 40, 52 
 Mrs. Golding, 224 
 Isabel, 4, 35, 75 
 John, R.A., 1-6, 8, 14, 19-21, 
 27. 29, 30, 32, 35, 38, 40, 43, 
 50, 52, 53, 67, 72-75, 84, 85, 
 89, 147, 166, 223, 237, 239, 
 240, 248 
 
 Copinger family, 164-166 
 Cordell, Sir W., 149, 15 1 
 Cornfield, The, 21, 47-50, 52 
 Cornard effigy, 100 
 Cotman, J. S., 2 
 Cottesford, Robert, 195, 199 
 Counter, The, 210, 213 
 Courtenay, Bishop, 138 
 Coverdale, Miles, 209 
 Cowper, William, 79, 184 
 Crabbe, George, 47 
 Crane, Sir R., 154 
 Cranmer, Archbishop, 204, 206 
 Cromwell, Oliver, 201 
 Gumming, Dr., 17 1 
 Cunningham, Allan, 118, 240 
 Cyril of Alexandria, 178 
 
 Daviller family, 244 
 Day, John, 55 n 
 Dedham, 19-32, 92, 95, 123 
 Classis, 23-27, 82, 83 
 Dedham Mill, Essex, 27 
 Dedham Vale, 19, 31 
 Dedham, Vale of, 1,8, 19, 30, 67 
 Defoe, Daniel, 9, 16, 68, 115, 127, 
 144, 163, 226, 246 
 De Ruyter, 256 
 De Veres, 130, 162 
 D’Ewes, Paul, 154 
 
 Sir S., 154-156, 164, 166, 167 
 D’lsraeli, Isaac, 71, 155 
 Dister, Allayne, 163 
 Dobson, Austin, 65 n 
 Doddridge, P., 79, 201 
 Domesday, 22, 113 
 Dominican monks, 113 
 Doningham, 218 
 Dort, Synod of, 199 
 Dowe, Richard, 82, 83 
 Dowsing, William, 17, 70-72, 125, 
 195 
 
 Drake, Nathan, 220 
 Dryden, John, 80, 179 
 Dunthorne, John, 29, 30, 52, 240 
 
INDEX 
 
 261 
 
 Dunton, Stephen, 28 
 Dutch fleets, 226, 247, 253, 256 
 Dutt, W. A., 17, 19, 34, 47, 87, 107, 
 145, 161, 235 
 
 East Anglia, 15 
 Horndon, 244 
 Eclectic Review, 17 1 
 Edmund the Martyr, 104-108 
 of Wessex, 16 
 
 Edward III., no, 113, 115, 134 
 Elliott, Rev. C. L. B., 234 
 Elizabeth, Queen, 97, 115, 151, 167, 
 236 
 
 Elmset, 146 
 Elmswell, 145 
 
 “English Landscape,” Constable’s, 
 2, 8, 40, 67, 75 
 Erasmus, D., 178 
 Erwarton, 244 
 Ethelbert, St., 131 
 Etty, W., 39 
 
 “ Fanaticism,” Taylor’s, 170 
 Farrar, F. W., 53 
 Feering, 8, 161 
 Felixstowe, 252, 254, 257 
 Field, John, 25 
 Fire of London, 13 
 Fisher, Archdeacon, 3, 74 
 Bishop, 74 
 
 Fiske, Zachariah, 199 
 FitzGilbert, R., 17 
 Flatford Mill, 18, 27, 33-41, 43 
 Flatford Mill on the River Stour, 34- 
 37. 43 
 
 Fleet prison, 206 
 
 Flemings, 92-95, 113, 115, 150 
 
 Foster, John, 170 
 
 (Lawyer), 204, 205 
 Foulness Island, 258 
 Fox, C. J., 183 
 George, 253 
 
 Foxe, J., 55, 57, 163, 194, 195, 203- 
 214, 218 
 
 Freeman, E. A., no 
 “ Friar John,” 196 
 Fuller, T., 164 
 W., 201 
 Fuseli, H., 49 
 
 Gainsborough, “ Jack,” 118, 119 
 John, 118, 1 19 
 Mrs. John, 117 
 
 Thomas, 2, 4, 116-123, 147, 
 157, 239, 241, 249, 250 
 Gairdner, Dr., 208 
 
 Gammer Gurton’s Needle, 198 
 Gardiner, Stephen, 206-210 
 Gardner, Daniel, 39 
 Gauden, Bishop, 196 
 Gaufridus di Fontibus, 104, 105 
 Gaunt, John of, 139 
 Gerarde, John, 7 
 
 Glebe Farm, The, 1, 74, 75, 116-123 
 
 Glemsford, 145 
 
 Gloucester, 217- 
 
 Goad, Thomas, 199 
 
 Goldsmith, O., 21, 148. 182 
 
 Gould, S. Baring, 229 
 
 Grant, Arthur, 173 
 
 Grantham, 198 
 
 Graye, Miles, 161, 190 
 
 Greenstead, 108 
 
 Gregory XI., 138 
 
 Grim wood, T. G., 29 
 
 Gurnall, W., 165, 1 66 
 
 Gu thrum, King, 194, 197 
 
 Hadleigh, 153, 186-220 
 Castle, 8 
 Hall, Bishop, 71 
 Chronicler, 94 
 Robert, 170 
 Halliwell, J. O., 155 
 Hamer ton, P. G., 5 
 Harlech Castle, 49 
 Harsnett Library, 178 
 Harwich, 16, 18, 67, 244-257 
 Harwich : Sea and Lighthouse, 248 
 Hay wain, The, 4, 43-45, 147 
 Havengore Island, 258 
 Hazlitt, W., 49, 60, 189 
 Helvoetsluys, 256 
 Hemel Hempstead, 190 
 Henderson, M. Sturge, 5, 6, 32 
 Henry VIII., 208 
 Hermits of Sudbury, 127, 128 
 Hertfordshire, 100, 173, 183, 201, 
 224 
 
 Hewer, William, 247 
 Higham, 86, 184 
 Hogarth, W., 21 
 Holbrook, 235 
 Bay, 15, 236 
 Hollesley, 236 
 Hollinshed, 137 
 Holmes, C. J., 5, 223 
 Homes, 214, 218 
 Hooper, Bishop, 217 
 Horksley, Little, 83 
 Horne, Bishop, 90 
 Hoxne, 107 
 
 Hull, John, 207, 211, 213 
 
262 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Humbert, Bishop, 105 
 Huse (bookseller), 71 
 Huxley, T. H., 170 
 
 Ibbeston, Richard, 199 
 Iceni, 16 
 
 Impressionism, 37 
 Innocent III., no 
 VI., 134, 135 
 
 Ipswich, 12, 52, 56, 94, 1 18, 148, 
 197, 199, 221, 241, 242 
 Islip, Archbishop, 126 
 “ Itinerary,” Antonine’s, 67 
 
 James, Henry, 59 
 Jefferies, Richard, 9, 84 
 Jewell’s “ Apology,” 18 
 Jocelind of Brakelond, 109 
 Jones, W., 57 
 W., 90, 91 
 
 John of Chertsey, 140 
 King, no 
 
 Johnson, Dr., 60, 79-81, 119, 189, 
 256, 257 
 
 Keats, John, 174 
 Kedington, 17, 177 
 Kelvedon, 7, 8 
 Kent, John de, 225 
 Kentwell Hall, 150, 153 
 Kersey, 217 
 
 Knights of St. John, 113 
 
 Lamb, Charles, 173, 174, 177 
 Lambeth, Synod of, 139 
 Landguard Fort, 245, 249, 250, 252, 
 253 
 
 Landscape with Water, 46 
 Lang, Andrew, 149, 160 
 Langham, 67, 74, 75 
 Langton, Stephen, no 
 Laud, Archbishop, 70 
 Lavenham, 29, 154, 1 59-171, 176, 
 179,215 
 Laxfield, 70, 71 
 Leader, B. W., R.A., 38, 237 
 Leaping Horse, The, 31, 32 
 Leslie, C. R., 1, 5, 30, 75 
 Lewis, Samuel, 100, 114 
 “Liber Studiorum,” 2 
 Veritatis,” 2 
 Liston, 18 
 Littlebury, W., 29 
 Lock on the Stour, A, 31 
 Loder, Robert, 71 
 London Bridge, 141 
 Longfellow, H. W., 15, 151 
 
 Lott, William, 42 
 Lucas, Sir C., 226 
 
 David, 2, 8, 30, 42, 72, 75, 241 
 Lydgate of Bury, 152 
 
 Macaulay, Lord, 29, 44, 165, 222 
 Maidstone, 140 
 Manningtree, 7-15, 222, 226 
 Water, 16 
 
 Market Cart, The, 147 
 Marks Tey, 7 
 Martin, Maria, 87-89 
 Mary, Queen, 208, 209 
 Masson, Prof., 146 
 Mead, William, 253 
 Medway, River, 258 
 Melford Hall, 151 
 
 Long, 18, 88, 144-158, 161, 167 
 “ Merle and Nightingale,” Dunbar’s, 
 172 
 
 Meyer, F. B., 41 
 Mifflin, Lloyd, 33 
 Millet, J. F., 52 
 Milton, John, 53, 166, 208 
 Mistley, 13-15, 87 
 “ Modern Painters,” 4 
 Monk, General, 253 
 Monk’s Eleigh, 179-184, 195 
 Montaigne, M., 161 
 “ More the Merrier, The,” 12 
 Morland, George, 21, 35, 84 
 Motte, Agnes, 181 
 Mulleme of Kersey, 218 
 
 Nacton, 241, 242 
 Nares, Archdeacon, 90 
 National Gallery, The, 1, 3, 4, 19, 
 21, 3L 35* 43* 46-50, 74 
 Sunday League, 10 
 “ Natural History of Enthusiasm,” 
 171 
 
 Nay land, 84-91 
 Nelson, Lord, 252 
 Newman, J. H., 90, 200 
 Norden, John, 13, 16, 255 
 Norwich, 56, 113, 194 
 Notley, Black, 8 
 Nowell, John, 219 
 
 Offa of Mercia, 1 3 1 
 On the Orwell, 241 
 Orrock, James, 46 
 Orwell Park, 242 
 
 River, 1, 9, 238-243 
 Overall, Bishop, 200 
 Oysterne, R. de, 196 
 
INDEX 
 
 263 
 
 Parker, Sir Hyde, 1 5 1 
 Matthew, 197 
 Richard, 23, 24 
 Sir W., 145 
 
 Parkstone Quay, 245, 246 
 “ Past and Present,” 104 
 Paton, J., 1 15 
 Pebmarsh, 126 
 Peldon, 27 
 
 Pennell, Joseph, 19, 38, 52, 59, 248 
 Pentlow, 17 
 
 Pepys, Samuel, 13 1, 246-248, 253, 
 256 
 
 Pichot, Amadee, 4 
 “Piers Shonkes,” 100 
 Pigot, Rev. H., 205, 219 
 Pin Mill, 238-243 
 Plume Library, 178 
 Poe, E. A., 154 
 Poictiers, 22 
 Pole, De la, family, 22 
 Polstead, 87-89 
 Pope, A., 79 
 Poslingford, 17 
 Pratt, J. B., 44 
 “ Prides Purge,” 154 
 Pykenham, W., 197 
 
 Quilter, W. C., 28 
 
 Ralph Royster D oyster, n, 198 
 Ramis, Roger de, 22 
 Raven, Dr. J. J., 16, 68, 153 
 Ray, John, 7, 178 
 Rembrandt, 39 
 Reynolds, Bishop, 178 
 Rhudde, Dr. D., 58, 59, 225 
 Richard II., 140- 142 
 Richardson, Anne, 64-66 
 Samuel, 65, 66 
 Riddell, Bishop, 145 
 Ridley, Bishop, 204 
 “Ringer’s Tug, The,” 191 
 Rivenhall, n 
 
 “ Roderick Random,” 242 
 
 Rogers, John, 210 
 
 Roman Roads, 66 
 
 Rose, H. J., 200 
 
 Rotheram, Archbishop, 196, 197 
 
 Royal Academy, 40, 43, 48, 49 
 
 Historical Society, 22, 150, 181 
 Ruskin, John, 4, 21, 236, 241 
 Ryle, Bishop, 166 
 
 Samson, Abbot, 104, 145, 146 
 Samuel, Robert, 55-57 
 Sands, Henry, 24 
 
 Saunders, G., 47 
 Scott, Canon, 160-164 
 Sir W., 12, 255, 258 
 Sheemess, 258 
 Shelley, P. B., 152 
 Shelton, Sir John, 219 
 Sheppey Island, 258 
 Shotley Gate, 229, 244 
 Sibbes, Richard, 145 
 Silk industry, 123, 124 
 Simon of Sudbury (Archbishop 
 Tybald), 1 33-143 
 Smallbridge Hall, 96, 97 
 Smallbroke, Richard, 199 
 Southend-on-Sea, 258 
 South Kensington Museum, 3, 19, 
 3L 43. 46, 52, 53- 66, 78, 237, 
 241, 249 
 
 Southey, R., 39, 79, 142, 203 
 Soyce, 218, 219 
 “ Spiritual Despotism,” 171 
 Spring family, 162-167, 176 
 Spurgeon, C. H., 7, 10, 57, 80, 165 
 St. Albans, 28, 89, 109 
 St. Mildred’s, Poultry, 12, 210 
 St. Paul’s Cathedral, 11 
 St. Peter-on-the-Wall, 103, 258 
 St. Philibert, Sir John de, 184 
 Stanford Rivers, 170, 17 1 
 Starling, John, 141 
 Statute of Praemunire, 135 
 Steele, R., 80, 189 
 Steevens, G., 80, 90 
 Stephen of Bungay, 22 
 Stevenson, R. L., 2, 59, 67, 74, 85, 
 hi, 124, 125, 174, 199 
 Still, Dr. J., 197, 199 
 Stoke-by-Clare, 197 
 Stoke-by-Nayland, 66, 71, 78 
 Stour, River, 1, 8, 9, 1 1, 15, 16, 18, 
 19, 20, 27, 31, 34, 43, 66, 73, 85, 
 105, 129, 184, 223, 226, 230, 236 
 Stow, John, 13, 137, 141, 210 
 Stowlangloft, 154 
 
 Stratford Mill on the River Stour, 3, 
 
 73. 85 
 
 Stratford-on-Avon, 258 
 
 St. Mary, 22, 60, 64-75 
 Straw, “ Jack,” 141 
 Strype’s “ Cranmer,” 219 
 Sturmer, 17 
 
 Stuterviile, De, family, 22 
 Stutton, 227, 233, 235 
 Sudbury, 2, 18, 69; 87, 101, no- 
 134, 145, 165, 198 
 Swynborne family, 83 
 Symonds, John A., 48 
 
INDEX 
 
 264 
 
 Talbot, Richard, 181 
 “ Tattingstone Wonder,” 232-234 
 Tay, William, 24 
 Taylor family, 168-171 
 
 Rowland, 195, 203-220 
 Thomas, 212, 213 
 Tennyson, A., 16 
 Theophrastus, 169 
 Thicknesse, Philip, 249, 250 
 Thomson, Hugh, 68 
 Tillotson, Archbishop, 177 
 Tom Peartree, 120, 148, 250 
 Toms, Isaac, 201 
 Tostock, 145 
 Tower Hill, 141 
 Tractarians, The, 171, 200 
 Tristram, Outram, 68 
 Trumball, Charles, 199 
 Turner, J. M. W., 2, 4, 14, 236 
 Tusser, Thomas, 11-13 
 Tye, Mr., 26 
 Tyler, Wat, 97, 132 
 
 Udall, Nicholas, 11 
 Usher, Dr. R. G., 23 
 
 Valley Farm, The, 41-49 
 Van Tromp, 247 
 Vernon, Admiral, 242, 250 
 R„ 46 
 
 View on the Stour, 41 
 
 Waldegrave family, 97, 98, 12 1 
 Waleys, Hugo, 225 
 Wallingford, 11 
 Walton, Izaak, 173, 174, 196 
 Walworth, Sir W., 143 
 
 Ward, Sam., 240 
 Warren, Dr. R., 153 
 Warwike, 218 
 Watling, H., 105 
 Watts, David, 89 
 Isaac, 201 
 
 Wedmore, Frederick, 2, 3, 8 
 Wenham, 201 
 West, Benjamin, 40 
 White, Gilbert, 20, 228 
 of Nayland, 82 
 Whitgift, Archbishop, 23, 26 
 Whitworth Institute, 8 
 Wickham Market, 161 
 Wilcocks, Thomas, 26, 27 
 Wilkie, Sir D., 21, 239, “240 
 Wilkins, David, 200 
 “Will o’ the Mill,” 144 
 William I., 17, no, 113 
 Willy Lott's House, 43 
 Wilson, Richard, 240 
 Winckelmann, 47 
 Windsor, Lord, 4, 5, 37, 75, 89, 223 
 Wiston, 96 
 Wixoe, 17 
 Wolfe, John, 23 
 Wolsey, Cardinal, 94, 95 
 Woodbridge, 71, 1 66 
 Woolverstone Park, 241 
 Worcester, 35, 75, 200 
 Wordsworth, W., 14, 236 
 Wyclif, John, 1 35-1 39 
 Wyllie, W. L., 258 
 
 Yarmouth, 88 
 Yellowley, Triptolemus, 11 
 Yeoman, Sir R., 207 
 York Minster, 197 
 
 Printed by Ballantyne & Co. Limited 
 Tavistock Street, London 
 

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
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