Half a mile away behind the hills lies Shelve, a village given over to mining; whence, by cross-country tracks, the Stiperstones may be ascended. This remarkable range forms one of a series of roughly parallel ridges, which traverse this portion of Shropshire in a north-east to south-westerly direction. Huge, timeworn ma.s.ses of quartz rock, cropping out here and there upon the skyline, give to these hills a strange, wild appearance; while such names as Devil's Chair, Nipstone Rock, and the like, indicate their traditional origin. One story tells how the Devil, rising up from his chair on the Stiperstones, and taking a three-mile stride across Hope Vale, planted his foot upon the Lord's Stone, a conspicuous rock on the hills to the westward, where, it is said, his footprint may to this day be seen.

Excelsior! is still the order of the day, on resuming our onward route, and the landscape a.s.sumes a bleaker look as the road slants steadily upwards. Marsh Pool, a small mere half choked by weeds, appears close at hand below the fern-clad slopes of Stapeley Hill; while Corndon soars aloft like a real mountain before us, dwarfing all his lesser neighbours. At the crossways we bear away westwards, striking presently into a rough, rambling cart-track, that leads up the unenclosed hillside.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Mitch.e.l.ls Fold.]

Half a mile of this sort of thing brings us to Mitch.e.l.l's Fold, which, to compare small things with great, may be called the Stonehenge of Shropshire. A dozen or more large slabs of stone are grouped into an irregular circle, most of the stones having long since fallen down, though three or four of them still remain upright, the tallest standing about 6 feet above the ground.

Tradition, the garrulous jade, has her own story to tell of how Mitch.e.l.l's Fold first came into existence. Once upon a time, it seems, there was a great famine throughout all this countryside, so that the good folk had much ado to 'keep the wolf from the door.' All they had to live upon was the milk from a white fairy Cow, that, night and morning, came to this spot to be milked. Thus everybody found plenty of milk, provided no one drew more than a pailful.

At length, however, came a wicked old witch, named Mitch.e.l.l, who proceeded to milk the good white cow into a riddle, or sieve, which she carried in her hand, so that presently the cow ran dry. Discovering the trick that had been played upon her, the cow became highly indignant, and, kicking over the riddle, vanished from the scene, and was never met with in these parts again. Indeed, it is said she turned crazy, and going off into a far country, became transformed into the famous Dun Cow slain by Guy, Earl of Warwick. As for the wicked old witch, she was turned into one of these stones on the hill, and the other stones were set around to keep her safely in; and so it comes to pa.s.s that the place to this day bears the name of Mitch.e.l.l's Fold.

With regard to the beneficent fairy Cow, one is minded to conjecture in what relation she stood to the wonderful Bull, whose exploits we heard of when at Hyssington. That point, however, we respectfully leave for antiquaries to decide, and now push on again for Chirbury.

The west wind greets us l.u.s.tily, as we tramp in the teeth of the breeze across acres of heather and bracken; pausing now and then to scan the wild moorland prospect, or to watch the gyrations of a brace of plovers, as they circle overhead.

Calling in for a draught of milk at the first farmhouse on the edge of cultivation, we pa.s.s the time of day with the master, who gives us a hearty Shropshire greeting. 'You be come to a desprit lonesome place,'

remarks our friend; 'and 'tis tedious work traipsin' about them beggarly lands such weather as this; but step in and sit ye down, and my missus 'ool bring us summat to drink.'

So down we sit in the roomy kitchen-place, surrounded by all the homely gear of the goodwife's daily use; taking occasional pulls at Nature's wholesome tipple from big blue china mugs, and discussing the affairs of the countryside like men to the manner born.

Once more afoot, we traverse a stretch of broken, intricate country, and, surmounting a ridge of low hills, drop downwards into the lower reaches of Marrington Dingle, a narrow, picturesque defile watered by the Camlad, whose 'crankling nookes' we hope to explore later on.

On the farther bank of the brook rises Heightley Hall, a mere farmhouse now, though in bygone days it was the ancestral home of the Newtons, an ancient family of more than local fame. The first to settle here, in 1501, was Sir Peter Newton, builder of the old Council House at Salop; and ere the last scion died out, in 1681, the family had given many High Sheriffs to Shropshire. Sir Isaac Newton, the great philosopher, was connected with the Newtons of Heightley.

The Hall itself has been much altered and modernized: but in the terraced gardens, with their rows of old yew trees, a large fishpond, and some remains of an ancient corn-mill down by the banks of the Camlad, we seem to see traces of a better state of things.

Peeping over the nearer tree-tops, the old grey timeworn tower of its ancient Priory church announces our approach to Chirbury, a picturesque village which can lay claim to a venerable past. Tradition avers that the monastery which once stood here was founded early in the tenth century by Ethelfleda, the 'Lady of the Mercians,' daughter of Alfred the Great; to whom is also attributed the building of Chirbury Castle, which stood at a spot known as 'King's Orchard,' on the outskirts of the village.

In the eleventh of Henry III., a Priory of Black Canons of St.

Augustine, established at Snead, a few years previously, by Robert de Boulers, was removed to Chirbury, where it flourished until the Dissolution. Bishop Swinfield twice visited Chirbury Priory in the year 1285, censuring the Prior upon the first occasion for laxity of discipline. His strictures, we may suppose, had the desired effect; for the Bishop subsequently found reason to commend the monks of Chirbury for their almsgiving and piety.

Born at Montgomery Castle in the year 1581, the celebrated Lord Herbert of Chirbury spent much of his time at this place, whence he derived his t.i.tle. Lord Herbert was created first Baron Chirbury, one of the t.i.tles still borne by the Earls of Powis. His literary achievements attracted considerable notice in the reign of James I.

So now let us turn our attention to St. Michael's church, which makes a pleasant picture, its ma.s.sive western tower soaring above a great yew tree, and roses, ivy and creepers, wreathed about the headstones in the foreground.

The existing parish church is all that remains of the great Priory church of the Austin Canons, 'Llanffynnon-wen,' the 'Church of the Fair Spring,' to give it its poetical Celtic name. A runnel of pure water still rises on the outskirts of the village; and some few years ago a stone water-conduit was brought to light in a garden close to the church.

Though shorn of much of its ancient distinction, Chirbury church is by no means devoid of interest. Owing to neglect and supineness in bygone times, the fabric was fast falling to decay; but of late years the venerable building has been put into a state of thorough repair, thanks to the judicious care of the Rev. John Burd, the present vicar.

The tower door, by which we enter, is surmounted by a small carved figure representing the Virgin and Child. Upon the stone door-jamb are several of those nicks, or scratches, we have puzzled over before--could yonder old yew tree but speak, perchance it might explain that they were caused by sharpening arrows, in the days when long-bows were fashioned from its tough, sinewy limbs.

The interior of Chirbury church is broad, s.p.a.cious and lofty; for those Austin Friars loved a roomy church to preach in. Owing to the 'spreading' of the roofs, the nave arcades and the walls above lean considerably outwards, though the walls of the aisles are upright; and there are many evidences that, for some reason or other, the present church was 'run up' in a hurry.

There was formerly a fine old roodscreen at Chirbury church; but it was removed many years since to Montgomery. On the wall near the chancel arch we notice a curious tablet to 'Ric Lloid, 1589,' with the Lloyd arms, and a skull, or 'memento mori,' set in a deeply sunk circle.

Another small mural tablet displays a shield and the letters H. M., the initials of Hugh Myddleton, the last Prior of Chirbury. The font, which is large and extremely archaic-looking, was rescued some years ago from a neighbouring garden, where it had long done duty as a water-trough!

From its close resemblance to certain ancient holy-water stoups, recently exhibited at Shrewsbury, Mr. Burd, the vicar, considers this font was originally the holy-water stoup of the earlier monastic church.

There is a curious entry in the Parish Book, for the year of grace 1808, which goes to shew it cost more in those days to pay for ale, to a.s.suage the Psalm Singers' thirst, than to defray the cost of their musical instruction! Payment was made, in 1604, to provide 'a bell and cordes to kepe the dogge out of the Churche, in tymes of divine service and preachinge'--autre temps autre moeurs.

Out in the churchyard, near the vestry door, lie the mortal remains of a former vicar, his brother, and their two wives, whereof the united ages amounted to 378 years, or the respectable average of over 94 years each.

A portion of a richly moulded pillar, or rather 'respond,' and some beautiful thirteenth-century floor tiles in the porch of an adjacent house, are remains of the old monkish church.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Virgin & Child, Chirbury.]

Some few years ago a small bronze matrix, representing the Virgin and Child, was dug up by chance in Chirbury churchyard, and is now in the possession of the vicar, by whose courtesy we are enabled to give a sketch of a cast from it. The late Mr. Bloxam considered, from the costume and the pose of the figure, that this interesting matrix dates from about the latter part of the fourteenth, or the beginning of the fifteenth century. It is of a kind very rare, if not unique, in this country.

In Chirbury vicarage is preserved a very valuable Library of Chained Books, probably the most complete private collection of its kind in this country:

'Antique Books--rare old Books-- Gathered from many old corners and nooks!'

The books, 207 in number, treat mainly of theological matters, and are of various dates from 1530 to 1684; most of them retain the iron chains and swivels by which they were fastened in the cabinet. They probably formed part of the library established at Montgomery Castle by George Herbert, the poet and divine; and were transferred to their present resting place by the Rev. Edward Lewis, who, during nearly half of the seventeenth century, was vicar of Chirbury.

Being a man of strong Puritan leanings, Parson Lewis was badly treated by the Royalists. One Sunday morning, when the vicar was in the act of addressing his flock, a troop of hors.e.m.e.n rode into the church, haled the good pastor out of his pulpit, and carried him prisoner to Captain Corbet, who at the time was in command of the King's forces in that locality.

In the secluded rural district around Chirbury, the oldfashioned rustic Stage Plays held their own until the early decades of the present century, long after they had ceased elsewhere; and to this day one may occasionally meet with an ancient greybeard, who in his salad days has figured upon the boards.

These performances generally took place close to some country inn, which, while providing refreshment for the thirsty audience, formed a sort of 'green-room' for the actors themselves. The play, in which two male actors usually took part, was performed, to the sc.r.a.ping of a fiddle, upon a stage improvised for the occasion, by placing some boards upon a couple of farm-waggons borrowed for the purpose.

The plays themselves appear to have been of a simple, not over-refined character, interspersed with broad jokes and sc.r.a.ps of local badinage, to suit the taste of the bucolic audience. 'Prince Mucidorus, or St.

George and the Fiery Dragon,' 'Rigs of the Times,' 'Valentine and Orson,' and a piece ent.i.tled 'Doctor Forster,' were the favourites. The hero of the latter is none other than our old acquaintance Faust, and it was supposed to be only acted on the sly, being considered such a very wicked play that something was sure to happen to put a stop to the performance; and the arrival upon the stage of his Satanic Majesty was regarded as the signal for an outbreak of thunder, lightning and hail, if nothing worse.

A mile or so out of Chirbury, in an undulating, well wooded park, on the verge of Marrington Dingle, stands the ancient timbered mansion of Marrington Hall, 'a very n.o.ble and sweete place,' as old Pepys would have said. In early doc.u.ments the name is Maritune, though it was always known to the Welsh as 'Hafod-wen,' the 'Fair Summer Dwelling,' a name as appropriate as pretty, for a more delightful situation for such an 'abode of ancient peace' it would be difficult to imagine.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Ancient Sundial at Marrington.]

Embosomed amidst ancestral oaks, under the lee of a range of high, heather-clad hills, this old Elizabethan homestead faces out towards the distant highlands of Montgomery, commanding a prospect of rare extent and beauty. Near one corner of the mansion grows a hollow oak, of enormous bulk and immemorial age, a veritable patriarch among his fellows: while upon the adjacent lawn rises the Sundial shewn in our sketch.

This curious Sundial, one of the most remarkable of its kind in England, consists of a stone monolith with chamfered edges set upon a large square base, the whole structure being about 5 or 6 feet in height. The figures 1595, cut upon the stone, mark the date of its erection; and around the base runs the inscription: FOR . CHARITI . BID . ME . ADW .

WHO . WROUGHT . THIS . STONE . FOR . THE . TOMB . OF . R . LL. A queer figure, carved upon one face of the pillar, may pa.s.s for a portrait of Richard Lloyd, the founder; whose arms, with those of the Newtons and other local families, appear upon the shaft.

On the top of the pillar is fixed a sundial, or gnomon; while smaller dials were inserted into every nook and cranny whither the sun's rays could penetrate. Upon the shaft are inscribed various suitable mottoes: THESE . SHADES . DO . FLEET . FROM . DAY . TO . DAY; AND . SO . THIS .

LIFE . Pa.s.sETH . AWAIE: DEUS . MIHI . LUX: FINIS . ITINERIS .

SEPULCHRUM: FUI . UT . ES; ERIS . UT . SUM: UT . HORA . SIC . VITA: etc., besides many devices and emblems more or less appropriate to the subject.

In the reign of Henry III., the Manor of Marrington was presented by Sir Robert de Boulers, founder of Chirbury Priory, to a kinsman, and was held for many generations by that ancient family. Pa.s.sing subsequently to the Lloyds, a Welsh rhymester concocted for the occasion the following curious couplet:

'Lle Bowdler mor ber ar bange, Yw lle Dafydd Lloyd ifange.'

'Where Bowdler so long had spit and board, Is now the place of young David Lloyd.'

To vary the route, we will return to Chirbury by way of Marrington Dingle. Here the Camlad has carved out for itself a deep, narrow gorge, running in a due northerly direction; a famous place for wildflowers, ferns and mosses, which flourish amain beneath the cool shade of the overarching copses, draping with a mantle of luscious verdure the banks of the winding stream.

Tranquil and secluded as is the vale to-day, there are evidences that, in the remote past, Marrington Dingle has proved a bone of contention to successive races of men. Camps and earthworks are planted upon many a salient corner and vantage point: and artificial tumuli abound upon the neighbouring lands.

Rhyd-y-Groes, on the ancient course of the Camlad, tells a different tale; for here, there is reason to believe, the monks in mediaeval times stationed their processional cross, while the pilgrims pa.s.sed through the rippling shallows at Rhyd-y-Groes, the 'Ford of the Cross.'

As we make our way thus towards Chirbury again through these quiet, unfrequented byways, a restful calm, 'hushing the harboured winds,'

overspreads the pleasant landscape. The sun has taken his last look at Chirbury, ere we re-enter the village and come to our night's lodging at the Herbert Arms, beneath the shadow of St. Michael's old steeple.