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 ECKINGTON BRIDGE

We floated under the steep bank that separates Comberton and its poplars
from the stream, along to the dusty mill beside Nafford Lock, and drew close
under this hill-side until the old beacon at its top (called the Summer-house)
stood right above our heads. At Nafford Lock there is a drop of six or eight
feet before the river runs on by yet more villages—Eckington, Birlingham,
and Defford. Here in the sombre west ahead of us the Malverns come into
view; and here, between Eckington and Defford, a bridge crosses, over
 PERSHORE WATER-GATE

which we leaned for a quiet half-hour before going on our way.

BREDON

It was a time, I think, that will pleasantly come back to us in days when
we shall fear to trust our decrepit limbs in a canoe. The bridge, six-arched,
with deep buttresses, seemed as old as Avon itself. It is built of the red
sandstone so common in the neighborhood; but time has long since
mellowed and subdued its color to reflect the landscape’s mood, which just
now was sober and even mournful. Rain hung over the Malverns; down on
the flat plain, where the river crept into the evening, the poplars were
swaying gently; a pair of jays hustled by with a warning squawk.
Throughout this, the last day of our voyage, we had travelled dully, scarce
exchanging a word, possessed with the stupor before alluded to. A small
discovery awoke us. As we rested our elbows on the parapet, we noticed that
many deep grooves or notches ran across it. They were marks worn in the
stone by the tow-ropes of departed barges.
Those notches spoke to us, as nothing had spoken yet, of the true secret
of Avon. Kings and their armies have trampled its banks from Naseby to
Tewkesbury, performing great feats of war; castles and monasteries have
risen over its waters; yet none of them has left a record so durable as are
these grooves where the bargemen shifted their
 TITHE BARN, BREDON

ropes in passing the bridge. The fighting reddened the river for a day; the
building was reflected there for a century or two; but the slow toil of man
has outlasted them both. And, looking westward over the homely landscape,
we realized the truth that Nature, too, is most in earnest when least dramatic;
that her most terrible power is seen neither in the whirlwind, nor in the
earthquake, nor in the fire, but in the catkins budding on the hazel—the still,
small voice that proves she is not dead, but sleeping lightly, and already
dreaming of the spring.

“Sed neque Medorum silvæ, ditissima terra—”

the note of Virgil’s praise of Italy was ours for a while, and
 NEAR ECKINGTON

his pride to inherit a land of immemorial towns—a land made fertile by

tillage and watered by “rivers stealing under hoary walls.”
A little below the bridge Avon is joined by the Defford (or, as it was once
called, Depeford) Brook, its last considerable tributary, which rises on the
west of the Lickey Hills; and a little farther on we turn a sharp bend where,
above the old willows on our right, a field of rank grass rises steeply to
Strensham church and vicarage. Behind the stumpy tower lies Strensham
village, not to be seen from the river. Here, in 1612, Samuel Butler was born,
the author of “Hudibras,” and a monument stands to his memory within the
church, beside other fine ones belonging to the Russell family. He was born
in obscurity, and died a pauper—a poet (to use the words which Dennis
wrote for his other monument in Westminster Abbey) who “was a whole
species of poets in one; admirable in a manner in which no one else has been
tolerable—a manner in which he knew no guide, and has found no follower.”
Very few can read that epitaph without recalling the more famous epigram
upon it:

“The poet’s fate is here in emblem shown;

He asked for bread, and he received a stone.”
 STRENSHAM CHURCH

STRENSHAM MILL

Below Strensham we pass a lock—the last before reaching Tewkesbury—

and two mills, the first and larger and more modern one deserted. Mr.
Sandys’s task was here not difficult, for the Avon Valley is so level that only
two locks are required in the fifteen miles from Pershore. We have scarcely
left the lock when the sharp steeple of Bredon,
ARROW-HEADS, NEAR TEWKESBURY
at the western extremity of Bredon Hill, points out the direction of the river.
To this village, during the civil war, Bishop Prideaux, of Worcester, retired
on a stipend of four shillings and sixpence a week. “This reverse of fortune,”
says Ireland, “he bore with much cheerfulness, although obliged to sell his
books and furniture to procure subsistence. One day, being asked by a
neighbor, as he passed through the village with something under his gown,
what had he got there?—he replied he was become an ostrich, and forced to
live upon iron—showing some old iron which he was going to sell at the
blacksmith’s to enable him to purchase a dinner.” The living of Bredon was,
in more peaceful times, one of the fattest in the bishop’s diocese, as is hinted
by a huge tithe-barn on the slope above us, with a chamber over its doorway,
doubtless for the accountant.
From Bredon we came to Twining Ferry, three miles below Strensham,
and the flat meadows beyond it, over which the tower of Tewkesbury Abbey
and the tall chimneys of its mills now began to loom through a rainy sky
upon which night was fast closing. It is just before the town is reached that
the Avon parts to join the Severn in four streams—one over a weir, another
through a lock, the remaining two after working mills. Being by this both
wet and hungry, we disembarked at the boat-yard beside Mythe Bridge, and
walked up to our inn beneath the dark, irregular gables of High Street,
resolved to explore the town next day.
Tewkesbury lies along the southern bank of Mill Avon, the longest branch
of our divided river, which, flowing under Mythe Bridge, washes on its left
the slums and back gardens of the town before it passes down to work the
Abbey Mill. One of these gardens—that of the Bell and Bowling-Green Inn
—will be recognized by all readers of “John Halifax, Gentleman,” and the
view from the yew-hedged bowling-green itself shall be painted in Mrs.
Craik’s own words:
 MYTHE BRIDGE, TEWKESBURY

“At the end of the arbor the wall which enclosed us on the riverward side
was cut down—my father had done it at my asking—so as to make a seat,
something after the fashion of Queen Mary’s seat at Stirling, of which I had
read. Thence one could see a goodly sweep of country. First, close below,
flowed the Avon—Shakespeare’s Avon—here a narrow, sluggish stream, but
capable, as we sometimes knew to our cost, of being roused into fierceness
and foam. Now it slipped on quietly enough, contenting itself with turning a
flour-mill hard by, the lazy whir of which made a sleepy, incessant monotone
which I was fond of hearing. From the opposite bank stretched a wide green
level called the Ham, dotted with pasturing cattle of all sorts. Beyond it
 TWINING FERRY

was a second river, forming an arc of a circle round the verdant flat. But the
stream itself lay so low as to be invisible from where we sat; you could only
trace the line of its course by the small white sails that glided in and out,
oddly enough, from behind clumps of trees and across meadow-lands.”

THE BOWLING-GREEN, TEWKESBURY

 This second stream is, of course, the Severn, sweeping broadly by the
base of Mythe Hill. An advertisement that we saw posted in Tewkesbury
streets gave us the size of the intervening meadow; it announced that the
after or latter math of the Severn Ham was to be sold by order of the trustees
—172 acres, 2 roods, 28 perches of grass in all. The Ham is let by auction,
and the money divided among the inhabitants of certain streets.
We lingered to observe the yew hedge, “fifteen feet high and as many
thick,” and talk to a waiter who now appeared at the back door of the inn. He
seemed to feel his black suit and white shirt-front incongruous with their
surroundings, and explained the cause of their presence. The Tewkesbury
Bowling Club had held its annual dinner there the night before. He showed
us the empty bottles.
“Evidently a very large club,” we said.
“No, sirs; thirsty.”
The Abbey Mill, which droned so pleasantly in Phineas Fletcher’s ears,
stands close by, under the shadow of the Abbey Church, its hours of work
and rest marked by the clock and peal of eight sweet-toned bells in the
Abbey Tower.

TEWKESBURY, FROM THE SEVERN

It is well that this tower should stand where it does. If to one who follows
the windings of Avon the recurrent suggestion of its scenery be that of
permanence, here fitly, at his journey’s end, he finds that permanence
embodied monumentally in stone. No building that I know in England—not
Westminster Abbey, with all its sleeping generations—conveys the
impression of durability in the same degree as does this Norman tower,
which, for eight centuries, has stood foursquare to the storms of heaven and
the frenzy of men. Though it rises one hundred and thirty-two feet from the
ground to the coping of its battlements, and though its upper stages contain
much exquisite carving, there is no
 MILL STREET, TEWKESBURY

lightness on its scarred, indomitable face, but only strength. The same
strength is repeated within the church by the fourteen huge cylindrical
columns from which the arches spring to bear the heavy roof of the nave. In
spite of the groining and elaborate traceries above, the rich eastern windows,
the luxuriant decoration of the chantry chapels and their monuments, these
fourteen columns give the note of the edifice. To them we return, and,
standing beside them, are able to ignore the mutilations of years, and see the
old church as it was on a certain spring day in 1471, when its painted
windows colored the white faces, and its ceilings echoed the cries, of the
beaten Lancastrians that clung to its altar for sanctuary.
For “in the field by Tewkesbury,” a little to the south, beside the highway
that runs to Gloucester and Cheltenham, the crown of England has been won
and lost. There, on the 4th of May, 1471, the troops of Queen Margaret and
the young Prince Edward, led by the Duke of Somerset from Exeter to join
another army that the Earl of Pembroke was raising in Wales, were
overtaken by Edward IV., who had hurried out from Windsor to intercept
them. Footsore and bedraggled, they had reached Tewkesbury on the 3d, and
“pight their field in a close euen hard at the towne’s end, hauing the towne
and abbeie at their backes; and directlie before them, and upon each side of
them, they were defended with cumbersome lanes, deepe ditches, and manie
hedges, besides hils and dales, so as the place seemed as noisome as might
be to approach unto.” From this secure position they were drawn by a ruse of
the Crookback’s, and slaughtered like sheep. Many, we know, fled to the
abbey, were seized there and executed by dozens at Tewkesbury Cross,
where High Street and Burton Street divide. Others were chased into the
river by the Abbey Mill and drowned. A house in Church Street is pointed
out as the place where Edward, Prince of Wales, was slain, and some stains
in the floor boards of one of the upper rooms are still held to be his blood-
marks. Tradition has marked his burial-place in the Abbey Church, and
written above it, “Eheu, hominum furor: matris tu sola lux es, et gregis
ultima spes.” The dust of his enemy Clarence—“false, fleeting, perjured
Clarence”—lies but a little way off, behind the altar-screen.
There is a narrow field, one of the last that Avon washes, down the centre
of which runs a narrow, withy-bordered watercourse. It is called the “Bloody
Meadow,” after the carnage of that day, when, as the story goes, blood
enough lay at its foot
to float a boat; and just
beyond our river is
gathered to the greater
Severn.
OLD HOUSE, TEWKESBURY