The Portsmouth Road and Its Tributaries Part 8

[Ill.u.s.tration: PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES.]

But on this occasion the affair was much more serious, whether blame attached to him solely for mistaken treatment, or whether scandal whispered at criminal complicity. The Princess Charlotte died on November 6, 1817; three months later--on February 13, 1818--Sir Richard Croft, in despair, shot himself. He was but fifty-six years of age.

Years later--in 1832--when Lady Ann Hamilton's extraordinary scribblings were published in two volumes under the t.i.tle of "A Secret History of the Court of England, from 1760 to the Death of George IV.," these old rumours were crystallized into a definite charge of murder against some n.o.bleman whose name is prudently veiled under a blank. The Princess, says Lady Hamilton, was in a fair way of recovery, and a cup of broth was given her; but after partaking of it she died in convulsions. The nurse who handed her the cup noticed a dark red sediment at the bottom, and on tasting it found her tongue blistered! This peer, according to Lady Hamilton, acted with the connivance of the King, George III., and his glorified German _hausfrau_, and with the approval of the Princess's father, the Regent, who, it is a.s.serted in those pages, was heard to say some time previously at Esher that "no child of the Princess Charlotte shall ever sit upon the throne of England." Lady Ann Hamilton, however, was a malevolent gossip, holding the most extreme Radical views, and as a personal friend and uncompromising partisan of Caroline, Princess of Wales,--that silly and phenomenally undignified woman--was eager to believe anything, no matter how atrocious, of her husband and his people.

No member of the Royal Family was present at the Princess Charlotte's death-bed. She died, with the sole exception of her husband, Prince Leopold, amid physicians and domestics.

The King and Queen were (says Lady Hamilton) a hundred and eight miles away, and the Regent was either at Carlton House or staying with the Marquis of Hertford (or rather the _Marchioness_, she adds, in significant italics).

It is said that Lady Ann Hamilton's writings, published as a "Secret History," were given to the world, without her knowledge or consent, by a gentleman who had obtained the ma.n.u.script. Certain it is that when these two volumes appeared, in 1832, they were suppressed; and some four years later, when some other ma.n.u.scripts belonging to the author were advertised for sale by auction, they were hastily bought up on behalf of a royal personage, and, it is believed, destroyed.

It is difficult to understand the hardihood which a.s.serted at that time that the Princess Charlotte had been the victim of a murderous conspiracy between her nearest relatives; the more especially because her death would not seem to have been any one's immediate great gain. Had it been of great advantage to any prominent member of the Royal Family, the suspicion might have been better founded, for royalty has no monopoly of virtue, while the temptations of its position are a hundredfold greater than those of lower estate. The history of royal houses shows that murder has frequently altered the line of succession, but surely the House of Brunswick (that heavy and phlegmatic line) never soared to this tragic height, or plumbed such depths of crime in modern times.

[Sidenote: _'MR. SMITH'_]

For many years after the death of the Princess Charlotte, Claremont was closed, the rooms unoccupied, and left in much the condition they were then. Prince Leopold became, by the death of his wife, life-owner of the place, but its sad memories led him to leave it for ever. In after years the Prince became King of the Belgians, and, in 1832, a year after this advancement, married the eldest daughter of Louis Philippe, King of the French. Sixteen years later, during the stress of the French Revolution of 1848, that _bourgeois_ King fled from Paris and crossed the Channel as "Mr. Smith," and his son-in-law placed Claremont at the disposal of the _emigre malgre lui_. Here he died in 1850. In 1865 the King of the Belgians died, and Claremont reverted to the Crown. Six years later the Marquis and Marchioness of Lorne stayed here on the occasion of their marriage, and when the Queen's youngest son, Prince Leopold, Duke of Albany, was married, Claremont became his home. But the Duke died in 1884, and the house is now in the occupation of his widow.

Claremont, indeed, is a place weighted with memories and sad thoughts of the "might have been." If only the intrepid Clive had lived to take the field against our rebellious colonists, as it was proposed he should do, it seems likely that the New England States had yet been ours, and Washington surely hanged or shot. Then North America had not become the safe refuge of political murderers commanding sympathetic ears at the White House, nor had we ever heard of the _scagliola_ fripperies of a Presidential Reception. But a dull and obstinate King, a stupid ministry, and incompetent generals combined to lose us those colonies, and death s.n.a.t.c.hed away untimely the foremost military genius of the time, to leave statesmen in despair at what they thought was surely the decay of a glorious Empire.

How changed, too, would have been the succession had the Princess Charlotte lived! The Sailor King--that most unaffected and heartiest of monarchs, whom the irreverent witlings of his day called "Silly Billy,"

for no particular reason that I know of--would have still remained Duke of Clarence, and the Princess Victoria would have been but a mere cousin of another Queen. But no matter what Fate has in store for other Houses, the Coburger reaps an advantage, whate'er befalls; and though one is relegated to a less distinguished career by the death of his consort, another of that prolific race becomes the husband of a Queen, and the father of our future Kings.

XIII

But it is a long way yet to Guildford, and eight miles to our next change, at the "Talbot" Hotel, Ripley; equally with the Esher "Bear" a coaching inn of long and honourable lineage. Let us then proceed without more ado down the road.

[Sidenote: _FAIRMILE_]

Fairmile Common is the next place of note, and it is especially notable from the coaching point of view, by reason of the flatness of the road that is supposed to be the only level mile between London and Guildford.

Along this Fair Mile, then, the coachmen of by-past generations generally took the opportunity of "springing" their cattle, and as they were "sprung" then, so they are to-day, over this best of galloping-grounds, the said "springing" bringing us, in less than no time, to Cobham Street, where there is a very fine and large roadside inn indeed, called the "White Lion." If the coach stopped here, you would be able to verify this statement by an exploration of the interior, which is as cosy and cheerful within as it is bare and cold and inhospitable-looking without--at least, those are my sentiments. But, then, the coach doesn't stop, but goes dashing round the corner and over the river Mole and up Pain's Hill in the "twinkling of a bed-post," that somewhat clumsy _facon de parler_.

Now, if you walked leisurely this way, there would be time for talking of many interesting things. Firstly, as to Fairmile itself, which is worth lingering over upon a fine summer's day.

Fairmile Common is a.s.sociated, in local tradition, with the following tragedy. Two young brothers of the Vincent family of Stoke D'Abernon, the elder of whom had but just come into possession of his estate, were out on a shooting expedition from that village. They had put up several birds, but had not been able to get a single shot, when the eldest swore with a great oath that he would fire at whatever they next met with. They had gone but little further when the miller of the neighbouring mill pa.s.sed them and bade them good-day. When he had pa.s.sed, the younger brother jokingly reminded the elder of his oath, whereupon the latter immediately fired at the miller, who fell dead upon the spot. The murderer escaped to his home, and, by family influence, backed by large sums of money, no effective steps were taken for his arrest. He was concealed upon his estate for some years, when he died from remorse. To commemorate his rash act and his untimely death, a monument was placed in Stoke D'Abernon Church, bearing the "b.l.o.o.d.y hand" which no doubt gave rise to the whole story.

[Sidenote: _COBHAM STREET_]

The red hand of Ulster, badge of honourable distinction, is not understanded by the country folk, and so, to account for it, the Stoke D'Abernon villagers have evolved this moving tale. That is my view of the legend. If you are curious concerning it, why, Stoke D'Abernon is near at hand, and there, in as charming a village church as you could wish to see, filled, beside, with archaeological interest, is this memorial. Did s.p.a.ce suffice (which it doesn't) much might be said of Stoke D'Abernon, of Slyfield Farm, and of Cobham village; which last must on no account be confounded with Cobham Street. The latter place is, in fact, just an offshoot (though an old one 'tis true) of the original village, and it arose out of the large amount of custom that was always going along the Portsmouth Road in olden times.

[Ill.u.s.tration: COBHAM CHURCHYARD.]

Cobham Street stood here in receipt of this custom and of much patronage from that very fine high-handed gentleman, the Honourable Charles Hamilton, who in the reign of George II. filched a large tract of common land just beyond the other side of the Mole, enclosed it, and by the expenditure of vast sums of money caused such gardens to blossom here, such caves and grottoes to be formed, and such cunning dispositions of statuary to be made (all in the cla.s.sic taste of the time) that that carping critic, Horace Walpole, was compelled to a reluctant admiration.

And this was the origin of the estate still known as Pain's Hill.

"'Tis very bad, in man or woman, To steal a goose from off the common: But who shall plead that man's excuse Who steals the common from the goose?"

Thus the metrical moralist. But this was common sport (no joke intended here!) during last century and in the beginning of this, and if a man stole a few hundred acres in this way, he was thought none the worse of for it. For all that, however, the Honourable Charles Hamilton was nothing more, in fact, than a common thief, with this difference--that the poor devil who "prigged" a handkerchief was hanged for petty larceny, while the rich man who stole land on a large scale, and converted it to his own uses, was hailed as a man of taste and culture, and his robbery commended.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PAIN'S HILL.]

[Sidenote: _WISLEY_]

Pain's Hill looms up finely as one turns the corner of Cobham Street and crosses the Mole by the successor of the bridge built here by the "Good Queen Maud," in place of the ford where one of her maids-of-honour was drowned. There are more inns here, and their humped and bowed roofs make an excellent composition in a sketch, with the remarkable mop-like trees of Pain's Hill Park seen in silhouette beyond. To Pain's Hill succeeds Tartar Hill and Wisley Common; sombre fir trees lining the road and reflected in the great pond that spreads like some mystic mere over many acres. The "Huts" Hotel, however, rebuilt and aggressively modern, is not at all mystic, and neither are the crowds of thirsty, dusty cyclists who frequent it on summer days.

XIV

[Sidenote: _CYCLING_]

The Portsmouth Road, from London to Ripley, has, any time these last twenty years, been the most frequented by cyclists of any road in England.

The "Ripley Road," as it is generally known among wheelmen, is throughout the year, but more especially in the spring and summer months, alive with cycles and noisy with the ringing of cycle-bells. On Sat.u.r.day afternoons, and on fine Sundays, an almost inconceivable number take a journey down these twenty-three miles from London, and back again in the evening; calling at the "Angel," at Ditton, on the way, and taking tea at their Mecca, the "Anchor," at Ripley. The road is excellent for cycling, but so also are a number of others, equally accessible, around London, and it must be acknowledged that the "Ripley Road" is as much favoured by a singular freak of fashion in cycling, and as illogically, as a particular walk in Hyde Park is affected by Society on Sundays. But in cycling circles (apt phrase!) it is quite the correct thing to be seen at Ditton or at Ripley on a Sunday, and every one who is any one in that sport and pastime, be-devilled as it is now-a-days with shady professionalism and the transparently subsidized performances of the makers' amateurs, must be there. The "Ripley Road," now-a-days, is, in fact, the stalking-ground of self-advertising long-distance riders, of cliquey and boisterous club-men, and of the immodest women who wear breeches awheel. The tourist, and the man who only has a fancy for the cycle as a means of healthful exercise, and does not join the membership of a club, give the "Ripley Road" a wide berth.

The frequenters of this road became in 1894 such an unmitigated nuisance and source of danger to the public in pa.s.sing through Kingston-on-Thames, that the local bench of magistrates were obliged to inst.i.tute proceedings against a number of cyclists for furious driving, and for riding machines without lights or bells. According to the evidence given by an inspector of police, no fewer than twenty thousand cyclists pa.s.sed through Kingston on Whit Sunday, 1894.

[Ill.u.s.tration: FAME UP-TO-DATE.]

Coaching men hate the cyclist with a bitter hatred, and he will ever be to them a _bete noir_ of the blackest hue. It may not be generally known that the contumelious expression of "cads on castors," which has become so widespread that it has almost obtained the popularity of a proverb, originated with Edmund Yates; but he was really the author of that scornful epithet, whose apt alliteration will probably never be forgotten, though the "castors" be evolved into hitherto undreamed-of patterns, and the race of cads who earned the appellation be dead and gone. The expression "cads on castors" will, with that other humorous epithet, "Brompton boilers," achieve immortality when cycling is obsolete, and the corrugated iron roofs of the Bethnal Green Museum are rusted away. The objectionable phrase of "bounders on box-seats," which some cycling journalists have flung back at their coaching critics has not run to anything like the popularity of the other, and more apt, effort of alliterative conciseness; for the prejudices of the lieges have, up to now, been chiefly in favour of the whips and horsey men to whom the cycle is the "poor man's horse," and therefore to be condemned. Will the sport and pastime of cycling ever become aristocratic? It is to be feared or hoped (accordingly as you admire or detest the cycle) that it will never win to this regard: at least, not while the road-racing clubs and individual cyclists continue to render the Queen's highway dangerous for all other travellers; not so long as that peculiar species of Fame, which is more properly Notoriety, continues to be trumpeted abroad concerning the doings of racing cyclists who strive, not for the English love of sport, but for the cheques awarded them by the long-headed manufacturers whose machines they ride--and advertise.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE "ANCHOR," RIPLEY.]

[Sidenote: _RIPLEY_]

But cycling has brought much prosperity to Ripley village and its two antiquated inns, the "Talbot" and the "Anchor." A few years ago, indeed (before cycling had become so popular), the "Talbot" was closed and given over to solitude and mice, but now-a-days one may be as well served there as at any country hostel you please to mention. The company, however, of the "Talbot" is not exclusively made up of wheelmen of the gregarious (or club) species, and a decent tourist who is neither a scorcher nor a wearer of badges, nor anything else of the "attached" variety, may rest himself there with quiet and comfort, except on high days and Bank holidays: on which occasions the quiet and peaceable man generally stays at home, preferring solitude to the over-much company he would find on the road.

But if you wish to see the club-wheelman in his most characteristic moods, why then the "Anchor" is your inn, for in the low-ceiled rooms that lurk dimly behind the queer, white-washed gables of that old house, cycling clubmen foregather in any number, limited only by the capacity of the inn.

The place is given over to cyclists, and beside the road, behind the house, or on the broad common upon which this roadside village fronts, their machines are stacked as thickly as in the store-rooms of some manufactory.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HERBERT LIDDELL CORTIS.]

At the further end of the village stands the ancient but much-restored chapel of Ripley, interesting to cyclists by reason of the memorial window inserted here to the memory of an early cycling hero of the race-path--Herbert Liddell Cortis--who died, shortly after reaching Australia, at Carcoar, New South Wales, on December 28, 1885. Interest of another kind may be found in the architecture of the Earl of Lovelace's beautiful seat, Ockham Park, that borders the road, just before entering the village; and in the ruins of Newark Abbey, that lie on the banks of the Wey, across Ripley Green. But time and tide wait for no man, and the "New Times" coach is equally impatient of delay. Two minutes suffice for changing teams at the "Talbot," and off that heir of the coaching age goes again.

XV.

For six miles the road runs level, from Ripley to Guildford, forming excellent galloping ground for the horses of the "New Times" coach. All the way the scenery is pretty, but with no very striking features, and villas dot the roadside for a considerable distance. On the left hand the coach pa.s.ses Clandon Park, and on the right comes Mr. Frederic Harrison's historic house, Sutton Place, and Stoke Park, that takes its name from the village of Stoke-next-Guildford.

Past some outlying waste lands and over railway bridges, the coach rattles down the sharp descent into Guildford town; down the narrow High Street--the steepest, they say, in England, and certainly the stoniest--to draw up before the "Angel," punctually at two o'clock.

[Sidenote: _PROVINCIALITY_]