"From his earliest years the truest of Christians, he showed himself of such promise that, by the unanimous will of all his folk, he was not so much chosen as rushed into the kingship over them. For his very look was worthy of this high estate; so bright was it with the calm beauty of holiness and of a conscience like the sea at rest. Kind was he of speech and courteous to all; the grace of Humility came natural to him; and amongst his comrades he kept his place as their Lord with wondrous meekness and no touch of pride. For already the Saint bare in his face that which he was afterwards, by G.o.d's will, to show forth; seeing that as a boy he had pressed with all his might into the Way of Righteousness, which, as G.o.d's pity foreknew, would end for him in the Way of Martyrdom.... And walking in the King's Highway, he turned aside neither to the right hand, by being puffed up with his own merits, nor to the left, by yielding to the faults of human weakness. To the needy was he a cheerful giver, to the widows and orphans the kindest of Patrons; ever keeping before his eyes the saying of the Wise Man: "Behold they have made thee Prince; but be thou among them as one of themselves."[180]

[Footnote 180: Chronicle of St. Neots.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Cottage at Steeple Morden._]

These parcloses seem to have been made to serve as confessional boxes, devices which were very rare in England before the Reformation.

"Shrift," of course, was universal; but neither priest nor penitent were shut from view. The former sat in a chair, usually at the altar rail, while the latter knelt beside and facing him. In these parcloses the priest's head as he sat on the seat would be visible to those in the church, but the kneeling penitent would be hidden. That such was the purpose here would appear from the lines in old English lettering painted upon their sides:--

Ad . mortem . duram . Jhesu . de . me . cape . curam .

Vitam . venturam . post . mortem . redde . securam .

Fac . me . confessum . rogo . te . Deus . ante . recessum .

Et . post . decessum . caelo. mihi . dirige . gressum .

"Jesu, in Death's dark vale, be Thou my stay, Make safe my Life to Come from every foe, Grant me Confession, Lord, ere hence I go, And then to Heaven do thou make straight my way."

From Guilden Morden a lane leads straight to Ashwell, leaving on the left Steeple Morden (which lost its steeple in the great storm of 1703), and Littlington, the cradle of Cambridgeshire Nonconformity, of which hereafter. Here the old parish Lock-up survives; a dismal den of red brick, some ten feet square, with iron-clenched door and closely-barred window.

CHAPTER XII

Oxford Road, Observatory, Neptune, Cambridge Discoveries.--Coton.--Madingley.--Hardwick.--Toft, St.

Hubert.--Childerley, Charles I.--Knapwell.--Bourn.--Caxton--Eltisley, St. Pandiana, Storm.--St. Neot's, Neotus and Alfred.--Paxton Hill.--G.o.dmanchester, Port Meadow.--Huntingdon, Cromwell's Penance.--The Hemingfords.--St.

Ives.--Holywell.--Overcote.--Earith, the Bedford Rivers, "Parallax."

Due westwards from Cambridge, turning leftwards out of the Via Devana just beyond Magdalene College, runs what used to be the old coaching road to Oxford. Till quite recently the milestones along it gave the distance to that city, between which and Cambridge there was of old a good deal of traffic, for the Universities were more closely connected then than even now. Popularly this road was called the _Ad eundem_ road, a nickname referring to the not so long by-gone privilege by which any graduate of either place might be admitted to the same degree (_ad eundem gradum_) in the sister University simply on payment of the fees and without any further examination. It is now spoken of as the Madingley Road, from the first village along its course, or the St. Neots Road, from the first town to which it leads. Thence it went on to Oxford by way of Bedford, Buckingham, and Bicester.

A short two miles along this road brings us to the porticoed front and white domes of the University Observatory, erected in 1822. More than a century earlier its embryo had been set up on the summit of the Great Gate Tower at Trinity College, for the benefit of Sir Isaac Newton; but this seems to have been little used after the death of that greatest of scientists. Even after the new Observatory was set up a certain lack of keenness pervaded its work. Thus it came about that Cambridge and England lost the glory of the discovery of Neptune, the most distant planet of our Solar System.

For more than a decade the irregularities in the motion of Ura.n.u.s (itself not long discovered) had suggested to astronomers that there must be another planet exterior to it, when, in 1841, John Couch Adams, then only an undergraduate of St. John's College, set himself to grapple with the arduous task of finding by a.n.a.lytical computation the orbit and place of this supposit.i.tious body. So stupendous were the difficulties that when, after four years of concentrated effort, he submitted his results to the Astronomer Royal, begging that the planet might be looked for in a certain spot (where we now know that it actually was visible at the time), his suggestion received very incredulous acceptance. Was it likely that a mere youth should have solved this gigantic problem?

That very autumn of 1845 another young man, quite independently, devoted himself to the same quest, the brilliant French mathematician Leverrier. He, in the following summer, published the results he had so far attained. Adams had never published; but these new results so strikingly agreed with his that the Astronomer Royal's incredulity gave way, and he desired that search should be made with the great equatorial telescope, then newly erected at Cambridge through the generosity of the Duke of Northumberland.

His injunctions were carried out; but the lack of a trustworthy star map made the work long. And it was made longer by lack of prompt.i.tude.

The minute celestial object (only equal to a star of the eighth magnitude) had been actually seen, but further observations were needed to establish the fact that it was indeed a planet moving amongst the stars around it. And these observations were delayed at the crucial point by the observers adjourning for a cup of tea! When they returned the sky had clouded over and no favourable night occurred for many evenings after. Meanwhile Leverrier had called in the aid of the Berlin Observatory; where there did exist a good star map, and also the eagerness so sadly lacking here at Cambridge. The very day his letter was received (23rd September, 1846), the great Berlin telescope was directed to the spot which he indicated,--and there was the planet.

The story goes that when the tidings of this overthrow of hope reached Cambridge, and were reported to the Fellows of Trinity as they sat at dinner in their Hall, it was as if a thunderbolt had fallen amongst them:

"And all talk died, as in a grove all song Beneath the shadow of some bird of prey; Then a long silence came upon the Hall,"

broken at last by Adam Sedgwick, the venerable Professor of Geology, who solemnly raised his clenched fist and brought it down upon the High Table, not with violence but with a concentrated tension of indignation, saying slowly, with an equal solemnity: "Confound their lymphatic souls."[181] As for the Observatory, the blow thoroughly roused it up; and ever since it has remained, both in material and moral equipment, amongst the foremost of the great Observatories of the world, where solid and useful work is continuously being done, while up-to-date instruments, methods, and records are never to seek.

On one evening of each week during term time any member of the University may see the practical working of the place, and bring friends with him.

[Footnote 181: The discovery of Neptune is by no means the only discovery the honour of which has been lost to Cambridge through that scientific temper of mind which is loth to publish investigations at an early stage of their verification. Months before Marconi introduced wireless telegraphy to the public it had been practised here by Professors Rutherford and Sir J. J. Thomson; the first serious messages being exchanged, over a distance of two miles, between the Cavendish Laboratory and the Observatory. At the same Laboratory the Rontgen rays were being investigated ere yet Rontgen became a household word. And long years before Bunsen and Kirchoff (in 1859) published the true explanation of Fraunhofer's dark lines in the solar spectrum, that explanation had been given to his pupils by yet another Cambridge Professor, Sir George Gabriel Stokes. Such indifference to mere fame reminds us of the old saying that an Oxford man looks as if all the world belonged to him, a Cambridge man as if he did not care whom it belonged to.]

A mile further we reach the foot of the chalk slope which bounds the Cam valley. At this point lanes diverge to the right and left. The latter almost immediately brings us to Coton, a tiny village with a tiny, but most picturesque, fourteenth century church, having a (restored) Norman chancel, a pretty spire, and a yet prettier south doorway. There is, too, a ma.s.sive rood screen, and a curious "palimpsest" Table of Commandments, the original sixteenth century lettering showing beneath repainted characters of the seventeenth century. Altogether the place is well worth the slight divergence needed to visit it, more especially as the lane between it and our road gives a view of Cambridge almost comparable to the prospect of

"That sweet City, with her dreaming spires"

which the c.u.mnor slopes (as Matthew Arnold sings) provide for Oxonians. Coton can also be reached from Cambridge by a delightful field path beneath overhanging oaks, which runs straight from Garret Hostel Bridge. Coton spire (as has been already mentioned) is the "objective" of the Trinity avenue, though the view has long been closed out by the growth of the branches.

The other lane, to the right, which leads to Madingley, is also worth traversing. From its hedgeless "switch-back" terraces we look northwards across the valley, not of the Cam but of the Ouse, bounded by the uplands of the island of Ely, ten miles away at the nearest point, and nearly twice as far where the ridge is crowned by the dim and distant towers of the cathedral. Conspicuous in the nearer distance is the red-brick ma.s.s of the Ladies' College at Girton, some three miles away from us. Madingley, to which half a mile or so of this prospect leads us, is a little place of steep pitches and tree-shaded lanes, very different from the usual Cambridgeshire village, but with a special charm of its own. It has a pretty little church nestling beneath a fine Elizabethan hall of red-brick. Both church and hall contain portions of the spoil of the church of St.

Etheldreda, which once stood at Histon and was pulled down by Mr.

Justice Hinde, the first builder of Madingley Hall, to whom the sacred edifice was given by Henry the Eighth. Its Norman font is now in Madingley Church, while part of its roof is still to be seen in the Hall.

At Madingley Hall King Edward the Seventh was quartered while an undergraduate of Trinity College. Tradition a.s.serts that it once sheltered another monarch, the ill-fated Charles the First, in a momentary attempt to escape from the clutches of the rebel army during his enforced residence at the neighbouring Hall of Childerley, as will be narrated in connection with that place. The Hall has, since that date, pa.s.sed from one family to another, and is now the seat of Colonel Harding, D.C.L.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Coton._]

Madingley is a centre of pretty lanes. Besides that already spoken of, another, an avenue of greenery, leads northwards to the Via Devana, another westwards to the village of Dry Drayton, and another up the hill southwards, to rejoin our St. Neots road on the summit of the ridge. Here we are 220 feet above the sea, overlooking the valley of the Ouse to the north and to the south that of the Cam, or, rather, of its tributary the Bourn Brook. The road keeps the highest ground, almost on the level, while a succession of lanes to the right and left lead down to the villages on either slope.

First comes a southward turn to Hardwick, the church of which is so conspicuous an object in the view from the roof of King's College Chapel. Here, in 1644, "Mr. Mapletoft, parson thereof, with a wife and seven children, had these articles exhibited against him, viz., that he refused to read anything from the Parliament, but read many things from the King at Oxford with great boldness; that he prayeth not for the Parliament nor hath found them any arms at all; that he is a man devoted to many superst.i.tious ceremonies, and commonly useth altar-worship, east-worship, and dropping-worship,[182] and after his sermon came out of the pulpit into the chancel and there made an end of his will-worship." Whereupon, by the Earl of Manchester's warrant, he was promptly ejected and sequestrated. The previous year the church had been purified by Dowsing, who notes with disgust that for dealing with "ten superst.i.tious pictures and a cross" he was here paid only 3s. 2d. instead of the 6s. 8d., which was his regular fee.

[Footnote 182: _I.e._ genuflecting.]

The great iconoclast has the same grievance in the adjoining village of Toft, where he got "only 6s. 8d." for a specially heavy "purification" of the church, involving the destruction of "twenty-seven superst.i.tious pictures in the windows, ten others in stone, three inscriptions, _Pray for the souls_, divers _Orate pro animabuses_ [sic] in the windows, and a bell _Ora pro anima Sancta Katharina_." The "pictures in stone" were doubtless the alabaster images of the reredos, fragments of which are still preserved in the church, exquisite in modelling and colour. The most noticeable is a headless figure of St. Hubert, the mighty hunter of legend, who was converted by meeting a white hart with golden horns (supposed to be an emblem of Christ), and received from St. Peter a key wherewith to cure hydrophobia. The key is here in his hand, with a dog beneath it, and the golden-horned hart couched by his side.

Just before we reach the seventh milestone from Cambridge another south-running lane diverges to Caldecote, with its retired little fane on the hill-side over the Bourn, a very oasis of devotional peace and quietude. Confronting it across the stream is the steeple of Kingston, where there is a fine fourteenth century fresco in the north aisle, and a delicious little niche in the western wall of the tower, outside.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Cottage at Toft._]

At the point where this lane leaves the road, another, looking like a mere farm road, turns off northwards. This leads to Childerley Hall, now a farm house, but in 1647 of sufficient consequence to serve as a sleeping place for Royalty. Hither King Charles the First was brought by his captors, when carried off by Cornet Joyce from Holmby House in Northamptonshire, as has been already narrated.[183] He was not altogether an unwilling captive, for both he and the Army hoped to arrive at some mutual accommodation which would make both independent of that Parliamentary control of which both were heartily wearied.

[Footnote 183: See p. 182.]

He was treated, accordingly, with the utmost respect; and during his stay at Childerley Hall[184] (from Sat.u.r.day, June 5, to Tuesday, June 8), the students of Cambridge "flocked apace" to pay their homage to him. "He is exceedingly cheerful," writes a contemporary scribe,[185]

"shows himself to all, and commands that no scholler be debarred from kissing his hand, for which honour they return humble thanks and _Vivat Rex_; and there the Sophs are in their gowns and caps as if no further than Barnwell." Nay, even the great chiefs of the army, the men who at Marston and Naseby had faced and conquered him, Fairfax, Ireton, and Whalley, and Cromwell himself, came hither to join in this hand-kissing, and, one after another, to be astonished at the ability and graciousness which their distressed Sovereign showed in the private interview granted to each in turn.

[Footnote 184: Childerley was then the seat of the Cutts family.]

[Footnote 185: Quoted in _East Anglia and the Civil War_ by Mr.

Kingston.]

But, if local tradition is to be trusted, beneath all this gallant show of gracious acquiescence in the inevitable, there lurked in the King's heart a deep conviction that the hope on which it was founded was forlorn indeed. For this tradition tells of a truly desperate dash for freedom, the success of which was all but impossible. It has been constantly handed down at Madingley Hall that on one of these June midnights a white figure knocked at the door, and a subdued voice asked for "Jack" (Sir John Cotton, a noted loyalist, whose seat the Hall was at that time). He came, and found this mysterious visitor none other than the King himself, disguised in a peasant's smock, and imploring concealment till he could escape from the country. By a secret stair, traces of which still exist, he was conducted to a hiding place in the roof. But it was too late; his flight had been discovered, and the pursuing troopers were already out in search of him. Madingley Hall would, of course, be amongst the very first places to be suspected of harbouring him, and the wild venture ended in despair. All was hushed up; for both he and his captors wished to keep up the fiction that he was with them willingly.

But they kept a tight grip upon him, and, when he left Childerley that Tuesday morning, would not allow him to ride on to his state prison at Newmarket through Cambridge (where the streets were being decked in his honour with "whole rose-bushes and strewn with rushes and herbs"), lest these demonstrations should kindle too ardent a flame of loyalty.

He was accordingly carried round by way of Grantchester and Trumpington. Since that time Childerley Hall has been rebuilt, but the room in which the King slept is still to be seen. And hard by the Hall there still stands the unpretentious little red-brick chapel (now a barn) in which he worshipped on that memorable Sunday.

A mile further along the road, lanes again branch off north and south.

The northern leads to the secluded hamlet of Knapwell, where a spring of ferruginous waters, held of old to be wonder-working, still justifies its ancient name of the Red Well. The southern brings us to Bourn, where the Bourn brook rises. On the slope above the stream stands the beautiful cruciform church, of late Norman and Early English architecture; the arches which open from the tower into the nave and the aisles being particularly noticeable. Bourn Hall is a fine Elizabethan mansion, the seat of J. Briscoe, Esq., and is the modern representative of a castle (the moat of which still exists) erected here by Picot, Sheriff of Cambridgeshire under William the Conqueror, and the scene of hard fighting in the Barons' War, when it belonged to the Peverells.

Eleven miles from Cambridge we cross the Ermine Street, a junction sufficiently important to have been selected by the wisdom of our ancestors as the site of a gibbet; the object being that as many as possible should see the gruesome spectacle of malefactors hanging in chains, and thus, if evilly disposed, take warning, or, if well disposed, be encouraged by this visible vindication of the Law's majesty. The gibbet has been gone for a century and more; but till quite lately the sign-post here directed the traveller simply TO LONDON and TO YORK on either hand, reminding us that this was the old North Road.

A mile along it, towards London, stands the little town of Caxton, from which the gibbet derived its name. A prosperous place in the old coaching days (as the size of its inns still testifies), it is now a mere village with 450 inhabitants. But it continues to boast itself a town. As the nearest point on the North Road to Cambridge, it was an important junction. The historian, Carter, writing in 1753, mentions that a mail was carried twice a week (on horseback) between Caxton and Cambridge; the only mail connection our University town then had, except with London and Bury St. Edmunds! We read also that, in the Jacobite rising of 1745, when it was seriously expected that the Stuart forces, after their wonderful success in reaching Derby, would march on to London, many Cambridge students, who cared little about the issue, secured windows at Caxton "to see the Scots pa.s.s by."

Sixty years before this another gleam of interest lights up the name of Caxton. In 1686 the Bishop, Francis Turner (one of the famous Seven prosecuted by James the Second and afterwards deprived by William the Third as a non-juror), made a strenuous effort to get Mattins and Evensong said daily, according to the Rubric, throughout his Diocese.

The following characteristic letter addressed by him to the Vicar of Caxton was discovered in 1908 amongst the church muniments: