To the Editor of Lippincot's Magazine:
SIR: There are few pleasanter ways of passing a
desultory hour than haphazard reading amongst old numbers
of a good magazine. I say advisedly "a desultory hour," for
when it comes to more than that the habit is apt to become
demoralizing. And, excellent as many English magazines are,
I must own that for this particular purpose I give the
preference to our American cousins. It would not be easy to
say precisely why, but so it is. One feels lighter after
them than one does after the same time given to their
English confrères. It may be that there is more
abandon, more tumbling in them—much more of that
borderland writing (if one may use the phrase) so good, as
I think, for magazine purposes, which you skim with a kind
of titillating doubt in your mind whether it is jest or
earnest—whether you are to take seriously, or the
writer intended you to take seriously, what he is telling
you; and so you may drop into a sort of dreamy
Alice-in-Wonderland state, prepared to accept
whatever comes next in a purely receptive condition, and
without any desire to ask questions.
It was in such a frame of mind, and with considerable
satisfaction, that I found myself some time since sitting
in a friend's house with a spare corner of time on my
hands, in a comfortable armchair, and a number of old
Lippincotts on the table by my side, the odds and
ends of the collection of a young countrywoman of mine of
literary and Transatlantic tastes. I glanced through some
half dozen numbers taken up at hazard, recognizing here and
there an old friend—for I have been an on-and-off
reader in these pages for years—and getting just
pleasantly pricked with a number of new ideas, as to which
I felt no responsibility—no need of ticketing or
labeling or packing them—when I came suddenly upon a
paper which sharply roused me from my mood of laisser
aller. It was by your accomplished and amusing
contributor Lady Blanche Murphy, and the subject just such
a one as one would wish to happen on under the
circumstances—Slains Castle, one of the oldest and
most romantic of the grim palace-keeps which are dotted
over Scotland, round which legends cluster so thick that
there is not one of their towers, scarcely a slender old
mullioned window, which is not specially connected with
some stirring tale of love, war or crime. But Slains stands
pre-eminent among Scotch castles on other grounds, and has
an interest which the doings of the earls of Errol, its
lords, could never have won for it. The Wizard of the North
has thrown his spell over it, and, whether Sir Walter Scott
intended it or not, Slains is accepted now as the Elangowan
Castle in Guy Mannering.
Now, with all these rich stores to work on, these
exceeding many flocks and herds of Northern legend and
glamour, Lady Blanche should surely have been content, and
not have descended into the South of England, upon a quiet
country-house in Berkshire, to seize its one ewe lamb and
claim that the heroine of the story which I hope to tell
before I get to the end of my paper was none other than the
termagant Countess Mary, hereditary lord high constable of
Scotland, and the owner of Slains Castle at the beginning
of last century.
Sir, I am bound to admit that this audacious claim
spoilt my wanderings up and down the pages of your
excellent magazine, and I resolved that whenever I should
find time I would write to you to revindicate the claims of
the "Berkshire Lady" to be native born and entirely
unconnected with the Countess Mary or Slains Castle. I can
scarcely remember the time when I did not know the story,
which indeed all Berkshire boys—or at any rate all
Bath-road Berkshire boys—took as regularly as measles in early youth. But let
me explain to New-World readers what I mean by a
Bath-road Berkshire boy. Our royal county of Berks is in
shape somewhat like a highlow or ancle-jack boot with
the toe toward London, and at the tip of the toe Windsor
Castle, which, as we all know, looks down on the Thames
as it finally leaves the county, of which it has formed
the northern boundary for more than one hundred miles.
The sweet river—for in spite of all pollution it
is still sweet at Windsor—has run all along the
top of the boot and down the instep, and along the toes,
taking Oxford, Abingdon, Wallingford, Henley, Reading
and Maidenhead in its way, with other places
historically interesting in a small way over here, but
which would scarcely be known by name even in the
best-drilled classes of your public schools. Along the
sole of the boot, from the heel at Hungerford, but
sloping gently upward till it joins the Thames at
Reading, runs another stream (a river we call it in
little England)—
The Kennet swift, for silver eels renowned.
Now, before the Great Western Railway had opened up the
county the only main line of road which passed through it
was the great Bath road, which entered near the toe at
Windsor and ran along the sole for the greater part of the
way by the side of the Kennet to the extreme heel at
Hungerford. All the northern part of the county—the
Thames valley and Vale of White Horse, and the
hill-district which separates these from the Vale of
Kennet—was at that time pierced only by cross-country
roads, and remained during the pre-railroad era one of the
most primitive districts of the West of England. Its
inhabitants retained their broad drawling speech, very
slightly modified from Tudor times, and looked with a
mixture of distrust and envy even on their fellow county
brethren in the Kennet Valley, who were being demoralized
by their daily intercourse with London through the
constantly growing traffic of the Bath road. Along that
thoroughfare, besides strings of post-chaises, vans and
wagons, ran daily more than one hundred coaches most of
which started from Bristol, and made the journey to London
in the day. The best of them did their ten miles an hour,
and so punctually that many of the inhabitants preferred
setting their watches by the "York House." the "Tantivy" or
the "Bristol Mail" rather than by the village clock. It
were much to be desired that their gigantic successor would
follow their excellent example more faithfully in this
matter.
Notwithstanding the distrust with which we of the back
country were bred to regard the metropolitan varnish which
was thus undermining the ancient Berkshire habits and
speech along our one great artery, it was always, I am
bound to admit, a high day for the dweller in uncorrupted
Berkshire when business or pleasure drew him from his home
in the downs or rich pastures of the primitive northern
half of the county by devious parish ways to the nearest
point on the great Bath road, where he was to meet the
coach which would carry him in a few hours "in amongst the
tide of men." I can still vividly recall the pleasing
thrill of excitement which ran through us when we caught
the first faint clink of hoof and roll of wheels, which
told of the approach of the coach before the leaders
appeared over the brow of the gentle slope some two hundred
yards from the cross-roads, where, recently deposited from
the family phaeton (dog-carts not having been yet
invented), we had been waiting with our trunk beside us in
joyful expectation. Thrice happy if, as the coach pulled up
to take us on board, we heard the inspiring words "room in
front," and proceeded to scramble up and take our seats
behind the box, waving a cheerful adieu to the sober family
servant as he turned his horse's head slowly homeward, his
mission discharged.
The habit of our family, and of most others, was to
attach ourselves to one particular coach or coachman on the
road, as thus special attention was secured for ladies or
children traveling alone, and preference as to places
should there happen to be a glut of would-be passengers. I
cannot honestly say that the old Bath-road coachman was,
as a rule, an attractive member of society, though the
mellowing effects of time and the traditions of the road
(helped largely by the immortal sayings and doings of
Mr. Tony Weller) have done much for his class. He was
often a silent, short-tempered fellow, with a very keen
eye for half-crowns, and no information to speak of as
to the country which passed daily under his eyes. But
there were plenty of exceptions to the rule, of whom Bob
Naylor was perhaps the most remarkable example. He had
no doubt been selected as our guardian on the road for
his kindly and genial nature and great love of children,
and for his repute as one of the safest of whips. But,
besides these sterling qualities, he was gifted with
irrepressible spirits, a good voice and ear, and a
special delight in the exercise of them. To county
magnate or parson or stranger seated by him on the box
he could be as decorous as a churchwarden, and talk of
politics or cattle or county business with all due
solemnity. But he was only at his best when "the front"
was occupied by boys, or at any rate with a strong
sprinkling of boys, amongst whom he was quite at his
ease, and who were even more eager to hear than he to
sing and talk. And of both songs and talk he had a
curious and ample store. Of songs his own special
favorites, I remember, were a long ballad in which a
faithful soldier is informed on his return to his native
village that his own true love "lives with her own
granny dear," which he, his mind running in military
grooves, takes for "grenadier," with temporarily
distressing results—though all comes right at
last—and a lyrical description of an upset of his
coach, the only one he ever had, written by a gifted
hostler. But on call he could give "The Tight Little
Island," "Rule Britannia" or any one of a dozen other
insular melodies.
Then his talk was racy of his beloved road, of which he
would recount the glories even in the days of its decline,
when the cormorant iron way was already swallowing stage
after stage of the best of it. He would narrate to us the
doings and feats of mighty whips—notably of a
never-to-be-forgotten dinner at the Pelican Inn, Newbury,
to which were gathered the élite of the
Bath-road cracksmen. At that great repast we heard how "for
wittles there was trout, speckled like a dane dog, weal as
wite as allablaster, sherry-wite-wine, red-port, and
everything in season. Then for company there was Sir Pay
(Sir H. Peyton), Squire Willy boys (Vielbois), Cherry Bob,
Long Dick, and I; and where would you go to find
five sech along any road out of London?" But his crowning
story, which he never missed as he cracked his four bays
along on the first stage west out of Reading, was that of
the Berkshire Lady, which, alas! my gifted countrywoman has
now laid covetous hands on and claimed for that dour Lady
Mary Hay, hereditary lord high constable of Scotland,
The "Berkshire Lady" is so bound up in my mind with my
early friend of the road, from whom I first heard it, that
I have let Memory fairly run away with me. But now, if your
readers will pardon me for this gossip, I will promise to
stick to my text.
At the beginning of the last century the fortune of one
of the last of the "Great Clothiers of the West," John
Kendrick, was inherited by a young lady, his granddaughter,
who thus became the mistress of Calcott Park, past which
the Bath road runs, three miles to the west of Reading. The
house stands some three hundred yards from the road, facing
due south, with a background of noble timber behind it, and
in front a gentle slope of fine green turf, on which the
deer seem to delight in grouping themselves at the most
picturesque points. Miss Kendrick is said to have been
beautiful and accomplished, and it is certain that she was
an eccentric young person, who turned a deaf ear to the
suits of many wooers, for, as the ballad quoted by your
contributor says—
Many noble persons courted
This young lady, 'tis reported;
But their labor was in vain:
They could not her love obtain.
This metrical version of the story is, I fear, lost
except the fragments which I shall quote; at least I have
sought for it in vain in all likely quarters since reading
Lady Blanche's article.
So Miss Kendrick lived a lonely and stately life in
Calcott Park.
Now, at this time there was a young gentleman of the
name of Benjamin Child, a barrister of the Temple,
belonging to the western circuit, of which Reading is the
first assize-town. He came of a family which had seen
better days, but his ancestors had suffered in the civil
war, and he had no fortune but his good looks. His practice
was as slender as his means, but nevertheless he managed to
ride the western circuit after the judges of assize. The
arrival of the judges in a county-town in those days was a
signal for hospitalities and festivities in which the
circuit barristers were welcome guests, and one spring
assizes Benjamin Child found himself at a wedding and ball,
where no doubt he carried himself as a young gentleman of
good birth and town breeding should.
Next morning he received at his lodgings a written
challenge, which alleged that he had grievously injured the
writer at the entertainments on the previous day, and
appointed a meeting in Calcott Park on the following
morning to settle the affair in mortal combat. In those
days no gentleman could refuse such an invitation, and
accordingly Child appeared at the appointed time and place,
accompanied by another young barrister as his second. The
rendezvous was at a spot near the present lodge, and the
young men on arriving found the lawn occupied by two women
in masks, while a carriage was drawn up under some trees
hard by. They were naturally in some embarrassment, from
which they were scarcely relieved when the ladies advanced
to meet them, and Child learned that one of them was his
challenger, the mortal offence being that he had won her
heart at the Reading ball, and that she had come there to
demand satisfaction.
So, now take your choice, says she—
Either fight or marry me.
Said he, Madam, pray, what mean ye?
In my life I ne'er have seen ye,
Pray, unmask, your visage show,
Then I'll tell you, ay or no.
Lady. I shall not my face uncover
Till the marriage rites are over.
Therefore, take you which you will—
Wed me, sir, or try your skill.
Benjamin Child retires to consult with his friend, who
advises him—
If my judgment may be trusted,
Wed her, man: you can't be worsted.
If she's rich, you rise in fame;
If she's poor, you are the same.
This advice, coupled perhaps with the figure and
appearance of his challenger, and the family coach in the
background, prevails, and the two young men and the masked
ladies drive to Tilchurst parish church, where the priest
is waiting. After the ceremony the bride,
With a courteous, kind behavior,
Did present his friend a favor:
Then she did dismiss him straight,
That he might no longer wait.
They then drive, the bride still masked, to Calcott
House, where he is left alone in a fair parlor for two
hours, till
He began to grieve at last,
For he had not broke his fast.
Then the steward appears and asks his business, and
There was peeping, laughing, jeering,
All within the lawyer's hearing;
But his bride he could not see.
"Would I were at home!" said he.
At last the dénouement comes. The lady of the
house appears and addresses him:
Lady. Sir, my servants have related
That some hours you have waited
In my parlor. Tell me who
In this house you ever knew?
Gentleman. Madam, if I have offended
It is more than I intended.
A young lady brought me here.
"That is true," said she, "my dear."
His challenger was the heiress of Calcott, where he
lived with her for many years; and
Now he's clothed in rich attire,
Not inferior to a squire.
Beauty, honor, riches, store!
What can man desire more?
They had two daughters, through one of whom the property
has descended to the Blagraves, the present owners.
And so ends the story of "The Berkshire Lady," and if it
should meet the eye of your accomplished contributor I
trust she will for ever hereafter give up all claim on
behalf of Lady Mary Hay.
Perhaps, too, some of your readers may be led to visit
the scene of these doings if they ever come to wander about
the old country. Reading is only an hour from London
now-a-days, and I will promise them that they will not
easily find a fairer corner in all England. The Bath road,
it is true, is now comparatively deserted, and no
well-appointed coaches flash by in front of Calcott Park.
But it is an easy three miles' walk or ride from Reading
Station, and by missing one train the pilgrim may get a
glimpse of English country-life under its most favorable
aspects, while at the same time, if skeptical as to this
"strange yet true narration," as the metrical chronicler
calls it, he may at any rate satisfy himself as to the
marriage of B. Child and the Berkshire Lady, and the birth
of their two daughters, by inspecting the parish register
at Tilchurst church for the years 1710 to 1713.
THOMAS HUGHES.