The Portsmouth Road and Its Tributaries Part 16

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE "FLYING BULL" SIGN.]

[Sidenote: _THE 'JOLLY DROVERS'_]

Just beyond the long line of modern houses stands another roadside inn, the "Jolly Drovers," planted 'mid capacious barns and roomy outhouses, at the angle of another country lane, leading to Rogate. The "Jolly Drovers"

looks an old house, but it was built so recently as the '20's, by a frugal drover named Knowles, who saw a profitable investment for his savings in building a "public" at what was then a lonely spot called Shrubb's Corner.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE "JOLLY DROVERS."]

And now, all the remaining five miles into Petersfield, the road goes along a fine, healthy, breezy country, bordered for a long distance by park-like iron fences and carefully-planted sapling firs, pines, and larches. At a point three and a half miles distant from Petersfield comes the hamlet of Sheet, where the road goes down abruptly between low, sandy cliffs, and brings us into the valley of the Rother, here a tiny stream that trickles insignificantly under a bridge, and rises, some three miles away, behind Petersfield, amid the hills and hangers of Steep, on the grounds of Rothercombe Farm, and then flows on through Suss.e.x. The Suss.e.x and Hampshire borders have, indeed, followed the road nearly all the way from Milland, but now we plunge directly into Hants. The character of the country changes, too, almost as soon as we are over the line; the chalk begins to replace the sand and gravel hitherto met, and the trees are fewer. Only by Buriton and at Up Park, to the south, is there much woodland; but at the latter place the deep shady copses and the ferny dells where the red deer still browse are delightful. Up Park should hold a place in the memory of loyal sportsmen, for it was here, long before Goodwood was used as a running-ground, that many celebrated races were held; and here the Prince of Wales, afterwards George IV., won his first race, in 1784, when his "Merry Traveller" beat Sir John Lade's "Medly Cut." And so into Petersfield.

XXVIII

[Sidenote: _PETERSFIELD_]

The old market town of Petersfield is one of those quiet places which, to the casual stranger, seem to sleep for six days of the week, and for one day of every seven wake up to quite a sprightly and business-like mood.

But Petersfield is even quieter than that. Its market is but fortnightly, and for thirteen days out of every fourteen the town dozes tranquilly. The imagination pictures the inhabitants of this old munic.i.p.al and parliamentary borough rubbing their eyes and yawning every alternate Wednesday, when the corn and cattle market is held; and when the last drover has gone, at the close of day, sinking again into slumber with a sigh of relief. Parliamentary, alas! the borough is no longer, since the latest Reform and Redistribution of Seats Act has s.n.a.t.c.hed away the one member that remained of the two who represented these free and enlightened burgesses before the Era of Reform broke out so destructively in 1832, and has now left the representation of Petersfield merged into that of a county division. The town lives in these days solely upon agriculture, and the needs of neighbouring fox-hunters. Once upon a time it possessed a number of woollen manufactories, but industries of this kind have long since died out, or have been transferred to more likely seats of commerce; and cattle, sheep, pigs, corn, and similar products now most do exercise the minds and muscles of local folk. It is a substantial, well-built town, looking, for all its age, like some late seventeenth-century growth, and the stranger standing in the market-place finds it difficult, if not impossible, to realize an antiquity that goes back certainly as far as the twelfth century, and dimly to an age when primitive savages, naked and dyed a brilliant blue, lived here in some clearing of the dense forest that spread over the face of the country, and hunted with ill success, and the inadequate aid of flint weapons, the wild boars and other fearsome fauna of that remote time.

[Sidenote: _EARLY DAYS_]

We know, chiefly from geological evidence, that when the Romans came and sailed up what is now Portsmouth Harbour, and cast anchor off the sh.o.r.e at Porchester, they found the southern face of Portsdown Hill as bare of trees as we see it to-day. Mounting to the crest of that imposing range, the legionaries looked down upon a forest that stretched, with few breaks, black and sullen, as far as eye could reach. This interior contained a settlement of the Belgae at what is now Winchester, and, for the rest, unknown men and beasts; and was only to be penetrated by slow and laborious felling of trees, and clearing of tangled brushwood; while, every now and again, these determined pioneers would be startled by an irruption of ferocious Belgae (those primitive Frenchmen), who with flint-tipped arrows sent many an invader to his long account. Those stubborn Romans, however, cleared a way, and, indeed, several ways. For, from this Portus Magnus, modern Porchester,--where their original fortress still stands, added to by mediaeval builders,--Roman roads were made to Venta Belgarum (Winchester), Regnum (Chichester), and Clausentum, now known as Bitterne. On either side of these roadways to and from their armed camps still stretched the woodlands, and they remained, in greater part, when the Roman power declined and the legions were withdrawn, to give room, in due time, to the invading Saxons. All these hundreds of years the dark recesses of the forest remained practically unknown; but at some safe and convenient distance from the towns of Venta or Regnum--handy for support, and yet sufficiently rural--Roman generals, prefects, and rich merchants erected elaborate villas, whose ruins are even now occasionally discovered by the ploughman as he laboriously turns over the grudging soil of Hants. Hypocausts and elaborate mosaic pavements testify to the comfort and luxury with which they surrounded themselves in those truly s.p.a.cious days, while abundant traces of their roads remain. It cannot have been until late Saxon times that the site of Petersfield became at all settled, and we first hear of it as a town when William, Earl of Gloucester, conferred a charter upon it, in the dawn of the twelfth century.

That ancient doc.u.ment is still in existence, as also is its confirmation by the Countess Hawyse, the Earl's widow in after years; and both these important parchments, together with any number of later doc.u.ments, were produced in the locally-celebrated Petersfield pet.i.tion in 1820 against the pretensions of the lord of the manor, who claimed rights over the munic.i.p.al elections which the worthy burgesses and freeholders of the town successfully resisted.

The result of that contention is evident to-day only in a supremely dull book in which all the conflicting evidence is printed in page after page of portentous, though hazy, rhetoric. It is all very uninteresting, and the quant.i.ty of evidence so obscures the issues of the fight that he who, like the present historian, comes to a consideration of these things from the point of view of interesting the "general reader," may be very well excused for coming away from a survey of the fray with as little knowledge of it as old Kaspar, in the poem. You cannot know "all about the war and what they fought each other for" without delving very deep indeed into the mustiest by-ways of munic.i.p.al history.

The Jolliffe, the lord of the manor whose claims were thus resisted by the good folk of Petersfield, was, singularly enough, a descendant of that lover of liberty and paragon of latinity, William Jolliffe, Esq., M.P. for the borough, and a knight in 1734, who presented the leaden equestrian statue of William III., that now stands in the market square, in admiration of that "Vindicator of Liberty."

[Sidenote: _HALF A HERO_]

This statue, bowed and bent and painted white, was originally set up in that part of the town known as "the New Way." In those days it was richly gilt, and doubtless excited the awe and admiration of the travellers who pa.s.sed through Petersfield; but to-day, the att.i.tude of the King is undignified, and the airy garb of old Rome in which he is represented, not only adds nothing to our reverence, but outrages our sense of the fitness of things under these cloudy skies.

The circ.u.mstances under which this statue was erected are recounted (in a manner dear to the heart of Dr. Johnson) in a Latin inscription of equal length and magniloquence, carved upon its stone pedestal. It veils with an impenetrable obscurity the ident.i.ty of this cla.s.sic horseman from nine of every ten people who behold him, and it runs thus:--

Ill.u.s.trissimo Celsissimo Principi GULIELMO TERTIO Qui ob plurima quam maxuma Officia De his Gentibus optime meritus est Qui Rempublicam pene labefactam Fort.i.ter sustentavit Qui purum et sincerum Dei cultum Tempestive conservavit Qui legibus vim suam Senatiq: auctoritatem Rest.i.tuit et stabilavit Gulielmus Jolliffe Eques Ne aliquid qualec.u.mque deesset Testimonium Quanto c.u.m amore Studioq: tam ipsam Libertatem Quam egregium hunc Libertatis Vindicem Proseartus est Hanc Statuam Testamento suo dicavit

Et in hoc Municipio poni curavit

{ Samuele Tufnel Exts { Edvardo Northey { Johanne Jolliffe

It was in 1815 that this leaden presentment of Dutch William was removed to its present site, over against the "Castle" Inn, where a scion of the House he supplanted--Charles II.--had, years before, slept a night on his way to France through Portsmouth.

Gibbon's father was the fellow-member with Sir William Jolliffe in the Parliamentary representation of Petersfield from 1734 to 1741, when he finally resigned all ambition to take part in the councils of the nation.

The historian, although for many years he had a seat in the House of Commons, never represented Petersfield, but only the remote Cornish borough of Liskeard. In this connection, the return for the three candidates who offered themselves for election in 1774 may be of interest.

Between them they polled only a hundred and twenty-five votes, in the following order:--

For Jolliffe 55 " Hume 53 " Sutton 17

And this is the number of the free and independent electors who at that time cared to exercise the glorious privilege of the franchise!

As showing the relative importance of towns and villages in olden times, it may be noted that Petersfield was an appanage of the manor of Buriton, and that the ecclesiastical parish was a part of the rectory of the same village until 1886. Yet the ancient parish church of St. Peter the Apostle at Petersfield is a fine building, parts of which go back to Norman times.

Indeed, the chancel arch and some elaborate arcading in the church are very fine examples of that period, and tend to show the importance with which the early Norman builders invested this spot. But even to-day the living of the quiet village of Buriton is very much more valuable than that of the borough town of Petersfield.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PETERSFIELD MARKET-PLACE.]

[Sidenote: _PETERSFIELD HOSTELRIES_]

So much for the history of Petersfield. Busy days it had in coaching times, and its inns were of the best, as befitted a place where the coaches stopped to change teams. They are still here: the chiefest of them, the "Castle," is now a school, and a very fine building it is, whether as school or hostelry. It stands boldly fronting the market-place, and is to be seen in the accompanying ill.u.s.tration, behind the statue of William III. It is the place where Charles II. stayed, on his way to Portsmouth, and is referred to by Pepys:--

"_May 1st._ Up early and bated at Petersfield in the room which the King lay in lately at his being there. Here very merry and played with our wives at bowles. Then we set forth again, and so to Portsmouth, seeming to me to be a very pleasant, strong place."

The other inns where the jaded traveller of fifty years ago was certain of being well and adequately received, were the "Dolphin," the "White Hart,"

and the "Red Lion," all of them flourishing still. Of these the "Dolphin"

is the largest, standing at the corner of Dragon Street, where the high-road pa.s.ses by. The courtyards and coach-houses of the "Dolphin" are a sight to see and to wonder at. You gaze at them, and presently the old times seem to come crowding back. The eight-and-twenty coaches (more or less, as you choose your period) that fared either way upon the Portsmouth Road seem more real to you who look upon these capacious stables; and the pa.s.sengers, the coachmen and guards, the ostlers, and the horsey hangers-on of such places come upon the imagination with a great deal more of reality than is gained from the reading of books, howsoever eloquent.

Cobbett on one of his rides stayed at Petersfield, and put up at this old house. "We got," says he, "good stabling at the 'Dolphin' for our horses.

The waiters and people at inns _look so hard at us_ to see us so liberal as to horse-feed, fire, candle, beds, and room, while we are so very very sparing in the article of drink! They seem to pity our taste!"

The memory of old times dies hard, and they still tell you here of the wonderful goat that was used to take his pleasure in following the up-coaches from here to G.o.dalming, returning day by day to sleep in the straw of the "Dolphin" stables. For years this singular animal escorted the coaches, until one day, after running some distance with the mail, he turned round three times, trotted off home, and during the rest of his life eschewed the delights of the road altogether. That was in 1825, and the tale has lost nothing in the telling these seventy years.

For the rest, the "Dolphin" is a singularly dull and unromantic-looking house, painted a leaden hue. Within, it is all long dark corridors and unexpected corners. Commercials frequent it; although inquiries have not yet discovered what commercial gentlemen sell at Petersfield. Sportsmen come here too, and tourists of the pedestrian variety. In the old days, of the period between the coaching era and the present time, the "Dolphin"

was very much neglected; the flooring precipitous and mostly worn out, so that the unsophisticated guest who jumped incautiously from his bed in the morning would, very likely, thrust his foot through some unexpected hole, to the imminent danger of the ceiling of the room beneath; or else would find himself rushing, with the steep gradient of the floor, into obscure corners of his apartment. The mirrors, also, in those days, left much to be desired of the guest who shaved himself, for they were either cracked or wavy, or both; and the traveller who, greatly daring, reaped a stubbly chin with trouble and cold water before one of those uncertain looking-gla.s.ses, in which his features flickered dizzily, required both stout nerves and a steady hand.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "SHAVED WITH TROUBLE AND COLD WATER."]

[Sidenote: _ELBOW ROOM_]

The dullness of that time has gone, and the roads are tolerably travelled to-day. The "Dolphin" rejoices in level flooring and decent repair, but the town, although so neat and cleanly, and, withal, prosperous, is a town of few wayfarers. You stand in the chief street and look with some surprise at twin evidences of considerable commerce--a large and modern Bank building, and a larger and still more modern Post-office. At the farther end of this street is the market-place, a s.p.a.cious square, in which the fortnightly market, already referred to, is held; and the high jinks of the July fair are performed. On market Wednesdays you can scarce move for drovers and farmers, for graziers, and for a peculiarly knowing-looking cla.s.s of men who might be horse-dealers or jockeys, or 'bus-drivers, or even cabmen: all wear the unmistakable look that they acquire who have much acquaintance with the n.o.ble animal, the Friend of Man. A very specialist crowd, this; and what they are ignorant of in the way of swedes and turnips, oil-cake, corn, or top-dressing, is scarce worth the acquiring. The market-place is partly filled on these occasions with pens in which sheep are closely huddled together, while cattle occupy the remainder of the s.p.a.ce. The lowing of the cattle in a resonant diapason, the barking of the drovers' dogs, the querulous bleating of the sheep, and the hum of the people, amount altogether to an agricultural _charivari_ as typical of a rural market-day as may be found in England.

XXIX

[Sidenote: _BURITON_]

A short mile off the road, two miles below Petersfield, is the charmingly-situated village of Buriton. It is reached by a winding lane turning off the high-road, beside a finger-post and two ugly modern cottages. Hop-fields and maltings border the lane, which suddenly, at one of its turns, discloses the village, tucked away in the sheltered lower slopes of the rolling South Downs, clothed in places with short gra.s.s, and in others bald and showing the white chalk; while just above the village are woodlands of tall elm and branching oak, vociferous with rooks. These "hangers," as hillside woods are locally termed, are a special feature of this part of Hampshire, and are not to be found in anything like this profusion in any other part of the county. They form the loveliest setting imaginable to an old-world village of this character, and it is difficult to say at what season of the year such a place as Buriton, backed with its woods, is most beautiful. Spring finds the forest trees bare and black, with waving branches sc.r.a.ping, like wizard fingers, gnarled and crooked, the leaden skies of moist February and windy March; and with April comes the stirring of the sap that sets off every little twig with the fairy-like pale green buds of future leaves, until a distant view of the hanger seems clothed in a tender emerald mist. Spring pa.s.ses and leaves the hillside trees clothed with a thick coat of summer foliage that forms the best of backgrounds to the red roofs of the village; and when leafy summer mellows into russet autumn the hanger is one ma.s.s of brilliant colour; gorgeous reds and yellows and tints of dull gold. When November fades away in mists and midnight frosts into Christmastide and the bleak days of January, when days draw out and "the cold begins to strengthen,"

as the country folk say, then the hanger is etched black and solemn against the snow-powdered downs, and you can discern every high-perched homestead of the rooks, swinging in the topmost branches of the tallest trees, and looking twice their actual size by this advent.i.tious juxtaposition of black and white.

And, indeed, Buriton is as cheerful in winter's frosts as in summer's heat. The village itself is commendably old-fashioned and typically English of the eighteenth century. True, a post and telegraph office stands in the village street, but that is the only anachronism: for the rest, it is a picture by Caldecott come to life. Caldecott saw in his mind's eye a characteristically English village of the time of the Georges, and he crystallized his vision in many tinted drawings. Here, then, is such a village in very truth, with its ancient church fronting an open s.p.a.ce in the village street, where a broad horse-pond, fed by a trickling rill, reflects the ivied church tower in summer, and in winter-time bears the shouting, red-faced urchins who come sliding upon its surface as merrily as English boys have done from time immemorial.

Fronting the other side of the pond is the old farm-house of Mapledurham, stuccoed, 'tis true, and plebeian enough to a casual observer, but bearing traces of antiquity in its gables, whence Tudor windows peep from out the handiwork of the modern plasterer, and thereby indict him for an artless fellow, with never a soul above contracts and cheap utility.