The conclusion by S. Baring-Gould is somewhat different: ‘The body of Sir Cloudesley Shovel was picked up by a soldier and his wife, who gave it a decent burial in the sand. It was afterwards conveyed to Westminster Abbey and laid there.’
Going out of Cornwall by railway, and then in a northeasterly direction through delectably bucolic counties, the traveller reaches the Black Country, the centre of which is Birmingham, the seat of the hardware, glass, gun, steel-pen and silver plate industries. ‘A visit to the principal manufacturing establishments, and excursions in the neighbourhood of the town, are the sole attractions for the tourist,’ Murray says.
Taking the train towards Crewe we read: ‘Gliding out of the magnificent central station and passing through the tunnel, the traveller emerges at once amongst the blackened chimneys and smutty atmosphere of manufacturing Birmingham. This is abundantly evident, not only from the physical signs of labour, but from the dense population accumulated on either side of the line, the frequent stations, and the general character of the passengers — the first class being occupied by business men, who leap in and out as though to save every moment of time, while the third are filled with grimy-faced artizans.’
After nine miles the town of Tipton, with a population of 30,000, is ‘spread over a circular area about 2m. in diameter, with coal-pits, iron-works, and dwellings, all mixed up together. In fact every inch of available ground is covered with furnaces, Tipton being celebrated for its iron as adapted for heavy works. It possesses a specialty for chain, cables, and anchors; and steam-engine boilers are also largely manufactured.’
Should the traveller decide to explore Shropshire and Cheshire he will note Mr Murray’s difficulties in compiling the handbook to those counties. ‘A list of a few good Hotels and Inns above the average is subjoined by way of help to the traveller and stimulus to hostelries below par. It is better in Shropshire, though there is still room for improvement; but in both counties it would be a proof of courtesy in the owners of “show places” and “historic houses,” which they are duly desirous to find mentioned in Country Handbooks such as “Murray’s,” if they would make known at the chief Hotels and leading bookseller’s shops of their nearest town, whether, when, and after what preliminary steps, visitors, presenting their cards, can be admitted. In one or two instances the Editor has been subjected to discourtesy, though it was the exception, not the rule.’
Ironbridge in Shropshire will be found ‘terribly spoilt by the forges and foundries, the banks of slag and refuse that run down to the water’s edge. Tiers of dirty cottages rise on the hill-side, which is very steep. Very near the station the Severn is crossed by an iron bridge of one arch, of 120 ft. span, being the first iron bridge on record.’
If our traveller in Crewe has to wait while changing trains he might look in at the nearby works, where steel ingots ‘are made here by Bessemer’s process, and it is one of the most beautiful sights in the world to see the blast put on to the huge converter. After a blow of 18 minutes, the spiegeleisen is added, and the whole fiery mass is then decanted out of the converter into a mould, a magnificent exhibition of fireworks and white heat.’
Tired of this spectacular industrial might, the traveller could pass a week at Matlock, having read Byron’s encomium in his Murray: ‘I can assure you there are things in Derbyshire as noble as Greece or Switzerland.’
The hotels are said to be ‘very comfortable’, and ‘agreeable walks have been carried up the steep heights on both sides of the valley; but, being for the most part private property and leased out, they are accessible only on paying toll. Indeed, the tourist will soon find with what ingenuity the people of Matlock manage to make him pay “backsheesh,” enough to exhaust a good amount of small change, for the privilege of beholding their charming landscapes. Nevertheless, he should on no account omit to ascend the Heights of Abraham.’
‘I have never seen anywhere else,’ wrote Nathaniel Hawthorne, ‘such exquisite scenery as surrounds the village of Matlock.’ the author of Highways and Byways in Derbyshire (J. B. Firth), however, bewails its spoiled condition, because ‘the railway companies let loose daily in the summer-time among its sylvan beauties a horde of callous rowdies, who envy Attila his destructive secret, whereby the grass never grew again where once his feet had been planted. The debasing influence of the day tripper is everywhere visible in Matlock. His trail is unmistakable. His litter is omnipresent. He has tastes which must be catered for. The shops deck themselves out with vulgarities and banalities to please their patron. His ear is so accustomed to the roar of machinery and the din of streets that there must be a bawling salesman on the pavement to shout crude invitations to buy. It is these shops, these refreshment bars, these permanent preparations for the coming of the tripper, which ruin the place, and, once begun, the descent to Avernus becomes a veritable glissade.’
Ruskin inveighs against the ‘civilization’ which ‘enterprised a railroad through the valley — you blasted its rocks away, heaped thousands of tons of shale into its lovely stream. The valley is gone, and the Gods with it.’
Or perhaps instead of Matlock our traveller might call at Chester on his way to Wales. Murray says: ‘Few, if any towns attract so many visitors of all classes and tastes as does this ancient city.’ During the races 25,000 people a day pass through it. Dr Johnson had previously observed to Miss Barnston: ‘I have come to Chester, Madam, I cannot tell how; and far less can I tell how to get away from it.’
Henry James, in English Hours, 1872, says: ‘… if the picturesque be measured by its hostility to our modern notions of convenience, Chester is probably the most romantic city in the world … it is so rare and complete a specimen of the antique town …’ If he stayed at one of the two first-class hotels he would have learned from his Murray that both were expensive.
From Chester it is a mere twenty-four miles to Llangollen where, Murray says, the Hand Hotel is ‘one of the best in Britain, a pleasant house, thoroughly comfortable, and very moderate, kind landlady, Mrs. Edwards.’ He then leads us on a ten-minute walk above the church to a ‘small cottage ornée, once the retreat of two maiden ladies, Lady Eleanor Butler, and the Hon. Miss Ponsonby. In 1799 they came hither together in the heyday of their youth and charms, influenced only by a romantic attachment to each other, which never was sundered, and a fancied desire to retire from the world. Here they set up their tent and lived together amidst their books and flowers. An assiduous correspondence carried on with their literary and fashionable friends kept them always au courant of the latest gossip and scandal of the outer world, and as their hermitage lay on the Holyhead mail road, it allowed many a passing friend to drop in upon them, such as young Arthur Wellesley on his way to embark for Spain, in 1808. The costume which they adopted, though it seemed singular to strangers, was only that of the Welsh peasant woman, — a man’s hat, a blue cloth gown or riding habit, with short hair, uncurled and grey (undyed). After a happy friendship of 50 years Miss Butler died, 1829, aged 90, and Miss Ponsonby in 1830 at the age of 78. Their house is now converted into a sort of Museum. Visitors pay a fee of 6d., which goes to some local charity.’