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[Contents.] [Appendix.] [Index.] [List of Illustrations] (In certain versions of this etext [in certain browsers] clicking on the image will bring up a larger version.) (etext transcriber's note) |
OVER FEN AND WOLD
A SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY MANOR-HOUSE.
BY
JAMES JOHN HISSEY
AUTHOR OF ‘A DRIVE THROUGH ENGLAND,’ ‘ON THE BOX SEAT,’
‘THROUGH TEN ENGLISH COUNTIES,’ ‘ON SOUTHERN ENGLISH ROADS,’ ETC.
Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown road before me leading wherever I choose.
Whitman.
WITH FOURTEEN FULL PAGE (AND SOME SMALLER) ILLUSTRATIONS
BY THE AUTHOR
AND A MAP OF THE ROUTE
London
MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1898
All rights reserved
DEDICATED
TO THE MOST CHERISHED MEMORY OF
MY ONE-YEAR-OLD SON
WILLIAM AVERELL HISSEY
Darling, if Jesus rose,
Then thou in God’s sweet strength hast risen as well;
When o’er thy brow the solemn darkness fell,
It was but one moment of repose.
Thy love is mine—my deathless love to thee!
May God’s love guard us till all death is o’er,—
Till thine eyes meet my sorrowing eyes once more,—
Then guard us still, through all eternity!
A HOME OF TO-DAY.
PREFACE
The following pages contain the chronicle of a leisurely and most enjoyable driving tour through a portion of Eastern England little esteemed and almost wholly, if not quite, neglected by the average tourist, for Lincolnshire is generally deemed to be a flat land, mostly consisting of Fens, and with but small, or no scenic attractions. We, however, found Lincolnshire to be a country of hills as well as of Fens, and we were charmed with the scenery thereof, which is none the less beautiful because neither famed nor fashionable. Some day it may become both. Lincolnshire scenery awaits discovery! Hitherto the pleasure-traveller has not found it out, but that is his loss!
We set forth on our tour, like the renowned Dr. Syntax, “in search of the picturesque,” combined with holiday relaxation, and in neither respect did we suffer disappointment. Our tour was an unqualified success. A more delightfully independent, a more restful, or a more remunerative way of seeing the country than by driving through it, without haste or any precisely arranged plan, it is difficult to conceive, ensuring, as such an expedition does, perfect freedom, and a happy escape from the many minor worries of ordinary travel—the only thing absolutely needful for the driving tourist to do being to find an inn for the night.
Writing of the joys of road-travel in the pre-railway days George Eliot says, “You have not the best of it in all things, O youngsters! The elderly man has his enviable memories, and not the least of them is the memory of a long journey on the outside of a stage-coach.” The railway is most excellent for speed, “but the slow old-fashioned way of getting from one end of the country to the other is the better thing to have in the memory. The happy outside coach-passenger, seated on the box from the dawn to the gloaming, gathered enough stories of English life, enough aspects of earth and sky, to make episodes for a modern Odyssey.” And so did we seated in our own dog-cart, more to be envied even than the summer-time coach-passenger, for we had full command over our conveyance, so that we could stop on the way, loiter, or make haste, as the mood inclined.
Sir Edwin Arnold says, “This world we live in is becoming sadly monotonous, as it shrinks year by year to smaller and smaller apparent dimensions under the rapid movement provided by limited passenger trains and swift ocean steamships.” Well, by driving one enlarges the apparent size of the world, for, as John Burrough puts it, “When you get into a railway carriage you want a continent, but the man in his carriage requires only a county.” Very true, moreover the man who steams round the world may see less than the man who merely drives round about an English county: the former is simply conveyed, the latter travels—a distinction with a vast difference!
In conclusion, I have only to express the hope that the illustrations herewith, engraved on wood from my sketches by Mr. George Pearson (to whom I tender my thanks for the pains he has taken in their reproduction), may lend an added interest to this unvarnished record of a most delightful and health-giving holiday.
J. J. HISSEY.
SOMERSBY CHURCH AND CROSS.
CONTENTS
| [CHAPTER I] | |
|---|---|
| PAGE | |
| The planning of our tour—Ready for the road—The start—Oneof Dick Turpin’s haunts—Barnet—A curious innsign—In the coaching days—Travellers, new and old—Aforgotten Spa—An ancient map | [1] |
| [CHAPTER II] | |
| Memorial of a great battle—An ancient fire-cresset—Freefeasting!—Country quiet—Travellers’ Tales—Hatfield—AnElizabethan architect—An author’s tomb—Day-dreaming—Mysteriousroadside monuments—Great North Roadversus Great Northern Railway—Stevenage—Chats bythe way—Field life—Nature as a painter—Changedtimes | [21] |
| [CHAPTER III] | |
| A gipsy encampment—A puzzling matter—Farming andfarmers, past and present—An ancient market-town—Apicturesque bit of old-world architecture—Gleaners—Time’schanges—A house in two counties—A waysideinn—The commercial value of the picturesque | [41] |
| [CHAPTER IV] | |
| Biggleswade—“Instituted” or “intruded”!—A poetical will—Theriver Ivel—A day to be remembered—The artof seeing—Misquotations—The striving after beauty—Storiesin stone—An ancient muniment chest—An angler’shaunt—The town bridge—The pronunciation of names—St.Neots | [58] |
| [CHAPTER V] | |
| The charm of small towns—The Ouse—A pleasant land—BuckdenPalace—A joke in stone—The birthplace ofSamuel Pepys—Buried treasure—Huntingdon—An old-timeinterior—A famous coaching inn—St. Ives—Achurch steeple blown down!—A quaint and ancient bridge—Ariverside ramble—Cowper’s country—Two narrowescapes | [73] |
| [CHAPTER VI] | |
| Cromwell’s birthplace—Records of the past—Early photographs—Abreezy day—Home-brewed ale—Americans onEnglish scenery—Alconbury Hill—The plains of Cambridgeshire—Thesilence of Nature—Stilton—A decayedcoaching town—A medieval hostelry—A big sign-board—Old-worldtraditions—Miles from anywhere | [97] |
| [CHAPTER VII] | |
| Norman Cross—A Norman-French inscription—A re-headedstatue—The friendliness of the road—The art of beingdelightful—The turnpike roads in their glory—Bits forthe curious—A story of the stocks—“Wansford in England”—Romanceand reality—The glamour of art—“Thefinest street between London and Edinburgh”—Ancient“Callises”—A historic inn—Windows that have tales totell | [118] |
| [CHAPTER VIII] | |
| A picturesque ruin—Round about Stamford—Browne’s “Callis”—Achat with an antiquary—A quaint interior—“Bull-running”—Arelic of a destroyed college—An old Carmelitegateway—A freak of Nature—Where Charles I.last slept as a free man—A storied ceiling—A gleaner’sbell—St. Leonard’s Priory—Tennyson’s county—In timeof vexation—A flood—Hiding-holes—Lost!—Memorialsof the past | [139] |
| [CHAPTER IX] | |
| A land of dykes—Fenland rivers—Crowland Abbey—A uniquetriangular bridge—Antiquaries differ—A mysterious statue—Amedieval rhyme—A wayside inscription—Thescenery of the Fens—Light-hearted travellers—Cowbit—Adesolate spot—An adventure on the road—A Dutch-liketown | [161] |
| [CHAPTER X] | |
| Spalding—“Ye Olde White Horse Inne”—An ancient halland quaint garden—Epitaph-hunting—A signboard joke—Acrossthe Fens—A strange world—Storm and sunshine—Anawkward predicament—Bourn—Birthplace ofHereward the Wake—A medieval railway station!—Tombstoneverses | [186] |
| [CHAPTER XI] | |
| A pleasant road—Memories—Shortening of names—Health-drinking—AMiller and his mill—A rail-less town—Changedtimes and changed ways—An Elizabethan churchclock—A curious coincidence—Old superstitions—Satirein carving—“The Monks of Old” | [204] |
| [CHAPTER XII] | |
| A civil tramp—Country hospitality—Sleaford—A Lincolnshiresaying—A sixteenth-century vicarage—Struck by lightning—“TheQueen of Villages”—A sculptured anachronism—Swineshead—Astrange legend—Local proverbs—Chatwith a “commercial”—A mission of destruction—Thecurfew—Lost our way—Out of the beaten track—A grotesquefigure and mysterious legend—Puzzling inscriptions—Theend of a long day | [226] |
| [CHAPTER XIII] | |
| The Fenland capital—Mother and daughter towns—“Bostonstump”—One church built over another—The companyat our inn—A desultory ramble—An ancient prison—ThePilgrim Fathers—The banks of the Witham—HusseyTower—An English Arcadia—Kyme Castle—Benington—Acountry of many churches—Wrangle—In search of aghost—A remote village—Gargoyles—The grotesque inart | [248] |
| [CHAPTER XIV] | |
| Wind-blown trees—Marshlands—September weather—Wainfleet—Anancient school—The scent of the sea—Therehabilitation of the old-fashioned ghost—A Lincolnshiremystery—A vain search—Too much alike—Delightfullyindefinite—Halton Holgate—In quest of a haunted house | [268] |
| [CHAPTER XV] | |
| In a haunted house—A strange story—A ghost described!—Anoffer declined—Market-day in a market-town—A picturesquecrowd—Tombs of ancient warriors—An oldtradition—Popular errors—A chat by the way—Themodern Puritan—A forgotten battle-ground—At the signof the “Bull” | [288] |
| [CHAPTER XVI] | |
| Six hilly miles—A vision for a pilgrim—The scenery of theWolds—Poets’ dreams versus realities—Tennyson’s brook—Somersby—Anout-of-the-world spot—Tennyson-land—Ahistoric home—A unique relic of the past—An ancientmoated grange—Traditions | [309] |
| [CHAPTER XVII] | |
| A decayed fane—Birds in church—An old manorial hall—Curiouscreations of the carver’s brain—The grotesque inexcelsis—The old formal garden—Sketching from memory—Thebeauty of the Wolds—Lovely Lincolnshire!—Adviceheeded!—A great character—A headless horseman—Extremesmeet—“All’s well that ends well” | [329] |
| [CHAPTER XVIII] | |
| A friend in a strange land—Horse sold in a church—A sportof the past—Racing the moon!—Facts for the curious—TheChampions of England—Scrivelsby Court—Brushmagic—Coronation cups—A unique privilege—A blunderinginscription—A headless body—Nine miles of beauty—Wragby—AtLincoln—Guides and guide-books—Anawkward predicament | [352] |
| [CHAPTER XIX] | |
| “A precious piece of architecture”—Guest at an inn—Apleasant city—Unexpected kindness—A medieval lavatory—Anhonest lawyer!—The cost of obliging a stranger—Branston—Alost cyclist—In search of a husband!—DunstonPillar—An architectural puzzle—A Lincolnshirespa—Exploring—An ancient chrismatory | [372] |
| [CHAPTER XX] | |
| A long discourse—The origin of a coat-of-arms—An Englishserf—A witch-stone—Lincolnshire folk-lore—A collar forlunatics—St. Mary’s thistle—A notable robbery—Anarchitectural gem—Coningsby—Tattershall church andcastle—Lowland and upland—“Beckingham-behind-the-Times”—OldLincolnshire folk | [395] |
| [CHAPTER XXI] | |
| A cross-country road—A famous hill—Another medieval inn—“TheDrunken Sermon”—Bottesford—Staunton Hall—Oldfamily deeds—A chained library—Woolsthorpemanor-house—A great inventor!—Melton Mowbray—Oakham—Aquaint old manorial custom—RockinghamCastle—Kirby | [415] |
| [CHAPTER XXII] | |
| A well-preserved relic—An old English home—Authoritiesdiffer—Rooms on the top of a Church tower—A medieval-lookingtown—A Saxon tower—Bedford—Bunyan’s birthplace—Luton—Theend of the journey | [436] |
| [Appendix] | [443] |
| [Index] | [445] |
ILLUSTRATIONS
OLD BRASS CROMWELL CLOCK.
ST. IVES BRIDGE.
OVER FEN AND WOLD
CHAPTER I
The planning of our tour—Ready for the road—The start—One of Dick Turpin’s haunts—Barnet—A curious inn sign—In the coaching days—Travellers, new and old—A forgotten Spa—An ancient map.
Our tour was planned one chilly winter’s evening: just a chance letter originated the idea of exploring a portion of Lincolnshire during the coming summer. Our project in embryo was to drive from London to that more or less untravelled land of fen and wold by the old North Road, and to return to our starting-point by another route, to be decided upon when we had finished our Lincolnshire wanderings. It was in this wise. The day had been wild and blustery, as drear a day indeed as an English December well could make. A bullying “Nor’-Easter” had been blowing savagely ever since the morning, by the evening it had increased to a veritable storm, the hail and sleet were hurled against the windows of our room, and the wind, as it came in fierce gusts, shook the casements as though it would blow them in if it could. My wife and self were chatting about former wanderings on wheels, trying fairly successfully to forget all about the inclement weather without, each comfortably ensconced in a real easychair within the ample ingle-nook of that cosy chamber known to the household as “the snuggery”—a happy combination of studio and library—the thick curtains were closely drawn across the mullioned windows to exclude any possible draughts, the great wood fire on the hearth (not one of your black coal fires in an iron grate arrangement) blazed forth right merrily, the oak logs crackled in a companionable way, throwing at the same time a ruddy glow into the room, and the bright flames roared up the wide chimney ever and again with an additional potency in response to extra vehement blasts without.
“What a capital time,” I exclaimed, “to look over some of the sketches we made during our last summer holiday; they will help us to recall the long sunny days, those jolly days we spent in the country, and bring back to mind many a pleasant spot and picturesque old home!” No sooner was the idea expressed than I sought out sundry well-filled sketch-books from the old oak corner cupboard devoted to our artistic belongings. True magicians were those sketch-books, with a power superior even to that
REMINISCENCES
of Prince Houssain’s carpet of Arabian Nights renown, for by their aid not only were we quickly transported to the distant shires, but we also turned back the hand of Time to the genial summer days, and, in spirit, were soon far away repeating our past rambles, afoot and awheel, along the bracken-clad hillsides, over the smooth-turfed Downs, and across the rugged, boulder-strewn moors, here purple with heather and there aglow with golden gorse; anon we were strolling alongside the grassy banks of a certain quiet gliding river beloved of anglers, and spanned, just at a point where an artist would have placed it, by a hoary bridge built by craftsmen dead and gone to dust long centuries ago. Then, bringing forcibly to mind the old beloved coaching days, came a weather-stained hostelry with its great sign-board still swinging as of yore on the top of a high post, and bearing the representation—rude but effective—of a ferocious-looking red lion that one well-remembered summer evening bade us two tired and dust-stained travellers a hearty heraldic welcome. Next we found ourselves wandering down a narrow valley made musical by a little stream tumbling and gambolling over its rocky bed (for the sketches revealed to the mind infinitely more than what the eye merely saw, recalling Nature’s sweet melodies, her songs without words, as well as her visible beauties; besides raising within one countless half-forgotten memories)—a stream that turned the great green droning wheel of an ancient water-mill, down to which on either hand gently sloped the wooded hills, and amidst the foliage, half drowned in greenery, we could discern at irregular intervals the red-tiled rooftrees of lowly cottage homes peeping picturesquely forth. Then we were transported to an old, time-grayed manor-house of many gables and great stacks of clustering chimneys, its ivy-grown walls and lichen-laden roof being backed by rook-haunted ancestral elms; the ancient home, with its quaint, old-fashioned garden and reed-grown moat encircling it, seemed, when we first came unexpectedly thereon, more like the fond creation of a painter or a poet than a happy reality.
“Don’t you remember,” said my wife, as we were looking at this last drawing, “what a delightful day we spent there, and how the owner, when he discovered us sketching, at once made friends with us and showed us all over the dear old place, and how he delighted in the old armour in the hall, and how he told us that his ancestors fought both at Crecy and Agincourt—how nice it must be to have valiant ancestors like that!—and don’t you remember that low-ceilinged, oak-panelled bed-chamber with the leaden-lattice window, the haunted room, and how it looked its part; and afterwards how the landlady of the village inn where we baited our horses would have it that the ghost of a former squire who was murdered by some one—or the ghost of somebody who was murdered by that squire, she was not quite sure which—stalks about that very chamber every night. And then there were the curiously-clipped yews on the terrace, and the old carved sun-dial at the end of the long walk, and——” But the last sentence was destined never to be finished, for at that moment a knock came at the door, followed by a servant bringing in a letter all moist and dripping, a trifling incident, that, however, sufficed to transport us back again from our dreamy wanderings amongst sunny summer scenes to that drear December night—our fireside travels came to an abrupt end!
“TRY LINCOLNSHIRE”
“What a night for any one to be out,” I muttered, as I took the proffered letter, glancing first at the handwriting, which was unfamiliar, then at the postmark, which bore the name of a remote Lincolnshire town, yet we knew no one in that whole wide county. Who could the sender be? we queried. He proved to be an unknown friend, who in a good-natured mood had written to suggest, in case we should be at a loss for a fresh country to explore during the coming summer, that we should try Lincolnshire; he further went on to remark, lest we should labour under the popular and mistaken impression (which we did) that it was a land more or less given over to “flats, fens and fogs,” that he had visitors from London staying with him with their bicycles, who complained loudly of the hills in his neighbourhood; furthermore, “just to whet our appetites,” as he put it, there followed a tempting list, “by way of sample,” of some of the good things scenic, antiquarian, and archæological, that awaited us, should we only come. Amongst the number—to enumerate only a few in chance order, and leaving out Lincoln and its cathedral—there were Crowland’s ruined abbey, set away in the heart of the Fens; numerous old churches, that by virtue of their remoteness had the rare good fortune to have escaped the restorer’s hands, and not a few of these, we were given to understand, contained curious brasses and interesting tombs of knightly warriors and unremembered worthies; Tattershall Castle, a glorious old pile, one of the finest structures of the kind in the kingdom; the historic town of Boston, with its famous fane and “stump” and Dutch-like waterways; Stamford, erst the rival of Oxford and Cambridge, with its Jacobean buildings, crumbling colleges, and quaint “Callises” or hospitals; Grantham, with its wonderful church spire and genuine medieval hostelry, dating back to the fifteenth century, that still offers entertainment to the latter-day pilgrim, and, moreover, makes him “comfortable exceedingly”; besides many an old coaching inn wherein to take our ease; not to mention the picturesque villages and sleepy market-towns, all innocent of the hand of the modern builder, nor the rambling manor-houses with their unwritten histories, the many moated granges with their unrecorded traditions, and perhaps not least, two really haunted houses, possessing well-established ghosts.
Then there was Tennyson’s birthplace at pretty Somersby, and the haunts of his early life round about, the wild wolds he loved so and sang of—the Highlands of Lincolnshire!—a dreamy land full of the unconscious poetry of civilisation, primitive and picturesque, yet not wholly unprogressive; a land where the fussy railway does not intrude, and where the rush and stress of this bustling century has made no visible impression; a land also where odd characters abound, and where the wise sayings of their forefathers, old folk-lore, legends, and strange superstitions linger yet; and last on the long list, and perhaps not least in interest, there was the wide Fenland, full of its own weird, but little understood beauties. Verily here was a tempting programme!
A TEMPTING PROGRAMME!
Pondering over all these good things, we found ourselves wondering how it was that we had never thought of Lincolnshire as fresh ground to explore before. Did we not then call to mind what a most enjoyable tour we had made through the little-esteemed Eastern Counties? though before starting on that expedition we had been warned by friends—who had never been there, by the way—that we should repent our resolve, as that portion of England was flat, tame, and intensely uninteresting, having nothing to show worth seeing, fit for farming and little else. Yet we remembered that we discovered the Langton Hills on our very first day out, and still retained a vivid impression of the glorious views therefrom, and all the rest of the journey was replete with pleasant surprises and scenic revelations. Truly we found the Land of the Broads to be flat, but so full of character and special beauty as to attract artists to paint it. “Therefore,” we exclaimed, “why should not Lincolnshire prove equally interesting and beautiful?” Perhaps even, like the once tourist-neglected Broads, the charms and picturesqueness of Lincolnshire may some day be discovered, be guidebook-lauded as a delightful holiday ground. Who knows? Besides, there was the drive thither and back along the old coachroads to be remembered; that of itself was sure to be rewarding.
The letter set us a-thinking, and the special shelf in our little library where sundry road-books and county maps are kept was searched for a chart of Lincolnshire. We were soon deeply engrossed with books and maps, and with their aid planned a very promising tour. By the time the old brass Cromwell clock on the bracket in a corner of the ingle-nook struck twelve we had finally decided, for good or ill, to try Lincolnshire; already we found ourselves longing for the summer time to come that we might be off!
But for all our longings and schemings it was the first of September before we actually set out on our journey; however, if this were unkindly delayed by the Fates, to make amends for such delay it must be confessed that they granted us perfect travellers’ weather, for during almost the whole time we were away from home there was not a day either too hot or too cold for open-air enjoyment, we had very little rain, and plenty of sunshine.
According to my experience, the month of September and the first week in October are generally the finest times in the year in England. During our journey we picked up, to us, many fresh bits of weather-lore and old-folk sayings; these are always welcome, and one of them runs thus: “It’s a foul year when there are not twenty fine days in September.” In that month truly the days are growing gradually shorter, but,
IN TRAVELLING ORDER
on the other hand, the dust—that one fly in the ointment of the driving tourist—is not so troublesome, indeed on this occasion it did not trouble us at all, nor is the heat so oppressive, nor the light so glaring as in July or August; and if the evenings draw in then, well, it only means an early start to have still a good long day before one, and the dusk coming on as you reach your night’s destination is a plausible excuse for indulging in a homelike fire in your apartment; and what a look of friendly familiarity a fire imparts to even a strange room, to say nothing of the mellow glow of candles on the table where your meal is spread! There is something indescribably cheery and suggestive of comfort, cosiness, and taking your ease about a fire-warmed and candle-lighted room! Truly there are certain compensating advantages in the early evenings! Did not Charles Lamb, writing to a brother poet, Bernard Barton, exclaim of July, “Deadly long are the days, these summer all-day days, with but a half-hour’s candle-light and no fire-light at all”?
Now, kind reader, please picture in your mind’s eye our comfortable and roomy dog-cart, carefully packed with all our necessary baggage, rugs, and waterproofs, the latter in case of cold or wet; our sketching and photographic paraphernalia; and even every luxury that long experience, gleaned from many former expeditions of a like nature, could suggest; not forgetting a plentiful supply of good tobacco of our favourite mixture, nor yet books to beguile a possible dull hour, which, however, never occurred. Amongst the books was a copy of Kingsley’s Hereward the Wake, as this treats of the Fenland heroes, as well as describes much of the lowland scenery of Lincolnshire. When I add that we included in our “kit” a supply of candles in case the light at some of the country inns should be too poor to read or write by comfortably, I think it may be taken for granted that nothing was forgotten that would in any way add to our ease or pleasure. It is astonishing how materially the thought of such apparent trifles adds to the enjoyment of an outing like ours. Even a good field-glass enhances the interest of a wide prospect, such as is continually met with during a lengthened driving tour, by enabling one the better to make out any special feature in the distant panorama.
Being thus prepared for the road, one cloudy September morning found us driving slowly out of the vast conglomeration of smoke-stained bricks and mortar that go to make the city—or county is it?—of London. Passing the Marble Arch, we reached the Edgware Road, up which we turned our horses’ heads, bound first for Barnet, taking Finchley on the way, and striking the Great North Road just beyond the latter place, which famous old coaching and posting highway we proposed to follow right on to “Stamford town” in Lincolnshire.
The morning was warm, cloudy, and rainless, though there had been a prolonged downpour during the night, but the barometer was happily on the rise, the “Forecast” in the paper prophesied only occasional showers, and we gladly noted that
THE FREEDOM OF THE ROAD
there were frequent patches of blue showing through the cloud-rifts above; all of which points taken together gave promise of improved meteorological conditions, so that, in spite of the dulness of the moment, we drove along in the most optimist of moods, firm in the belief that the day would turn out fine; but fine or wet, we set forth on pleasure bent with a fixed determination, come what might in the shape of weather, to enjoy ourselves, and it would have taken a good deal more than a few showers just then to damp our jubilant holiday spirits.
No children fresh from school could have felt “jollier” than we did on that memorable morning, at perfect liberty to wander whither we would, masters of our conveyance, with no anxiety as to luggage, bound by no tiresome time-tables, but departing and arriving at pleasure, stopping here and there when anything of interest attracted our attention, loitering by the way or hastening along at our own sweet pleasure: the freedom of the road was ours, more desirable to us than the freedom of any city, however great that city might be; and the former is to be had by all, and the latter is only for the favoured few!
Now, kind reader, if you will permit me to call you so once more, as at last we really have started on our tour, I take the opportunity to crave your welcome company, and cordially invite you in spirit to mount on to the box-seat and join us in our pleasant pilgrimage along the highways and byways of this little-travelled corner of Old England, and allow me to do the honours of the country as we pass through it, and for the nonce to act the part of “guide, philosopher, and friend.”
For the first few miles it was a getting-out-of-town all the way; houses and villas lined the road more or less, with tantalising peeps between—peeps ever growing wider and more frequent—of the greenful country stretching away to the blue horizon beyond, a beyond that looked very alluring to our town-tired eyes. We drove on apace, for we found nothing to specially interest or detain us till we reached Barnet; we felt only anxious to escape as speedily as possible from the ever-spreading domain of bricks and mortar, and to reach the real open country, where pleasant footpaths take the place of the hard pavements, and fragrant hedgerows, verdurous meadows, and tilled fields with their green and golden crops that of houses raised by the speculative builder—to sell. How much better was the old system of men building their own homes to live in! The speculative builder is the unhappy product of a progressive (?) century; he perhaps is responsible for the uglification of London more than aught else, and, alas! is still adding to it.
Passing through the once rural hamlet of Whetstone, it was difficult to realise that this now frequented spot was erst the favourite hunting-ground of that famous (or infamous, if you will) arch-highwayman, Dick Turpin. Great indeed was the terror inspired by his name, for it is recorded that many a Scotch nobleman, squire, and merchant of the period, having occasion to go from Edinburgh to London or vice versa,
A POPULAR SIGN
actually preferred to risk the dangers and suffer the certain discomforts of the then tedious sea voyage between those places, rather than face the possibility of meeting with Master Turpin—lord of the road from London to York! A driving tour would have afforded plenty of excitement in those days, though I shall ever maintain that adventures—and this from personal experiences of such with Indians, bears, and rattlesnakes, whilst exploring the wild forests and mountains of far-off California—are vastly better to read about than to experience. Adventures are excellent things to relate to your friends in after-dinner talk, if you can only get them to take you seriously!
Arriving at Barnet, we pulled up at the “Red Lion,” and rested there to bait our horses. The sign of the inn—perhaps the most popular of all English signs—was not painted on a board and upheld by a post, as so frequently obtains in old-fashioned hostelries such as this; but the lion was carved in wood, and skilfully carved too, whilst to add to his dignity we found him rejoicing in a fresh coat of vermilion, and still further to attract the wayfarer’s attention he was supported upon a wrought-iron bracket that projected right over the pavement. This sign, standing thus boldly aloft on its great bracket, was a point of interest in the everyday street for the eye to dwell upon—an interest emphasised by past-time associations, for thus, before the coming of the iron horse, had it greeted our inn-loving forefathers when journeying this way, and in a pleasantly defiant manner bade them stop and take their ease; not that they needed much pressing to do so, for did not the worthy Dr. Johnson, when posting across country, frequently exclaim, “Here is an inn; let us rest awhile”? But that was in the leisurely days gone by when mortals had more time to call their own. I have often wondered, could he be conjured back to life again, what the worthy doctor would think of present-time ways, what he would say of the railways, but above all, what his opinion would be of the huge company hotel, where he would find his individuality merged in a mere number. I trow he would prefer his comfortable tavern, where he could have his quiet talk—and listeners.
I find, by referring to some ancient and valued road-books in my possession, that the two chief inns of the coaching age at Barnet were the “Red Lion” and the “Green Man,” each patronised by rival coaches. The latter sign I imagine, judging from the frequent mention of it in the same authorities, to have been at the period a very common and popular one, though now apparently gone entirely out of favour. What was the origin of this strange sign I cannot say, but it may be remembered that green men—that is, men with their faces, arms, and hands stained that hue, and their bodies covered with skins—were frequently to be found amongst the processions and pageants of the sight-loving Middle Ages, such a “get-up” being intended to represent a savage, and constant mention of them was made in the old writings and plays. In the play of The Cobblers Prophecy (1594) one of the characters is
“THE GREEN MAN”
made to say, “Comes there a pageant by? Then I’ll stand out of the green man’s way.” I find also, in Dr. Brewer’s Handbook of Allusions, an extract given from a play of a year later, entitled, The Seven Champions of Christendom, which runs as follows:—“Have you any squibs, or green man in your shows?” During the next century, and for some time afterwards, gamekeepers were usually clad in green, a fact noted by Crabbe:
But the green man shall I pass by unsung?...
A squire’s attendant clad in keeper’s green.
At one or other of these two once famous hostels the old coaches took their first change out, or their last change in, and not much time was allowed for or lost in the changing either; for if our ancestors, according to modern notions, made haste slowly, at least they made all the haste they knew. The now quiet (except at the time of the noted horse fair) Barnet High Street was then astir all the day long and half the night with the coming and going of coaches, to say nothing of “posters,” and the roadway rang with the rattle and clatter of fast travelling teams, the air was resonant with the musical echoes of the frequent horn, whilst the hurried shout of “next change” kept the inn-yards alive and ready, the ostlers alert. Steam has changed all this; now we travel more speedily but less picturesquely, more luxuriously but less romantically. Why, the very meaning of the word travel—derived, my dictionary informs me, from “travail; excessive toil”—has surely wholly lost its signification in this easy-going age of Pullman cars, and mail steamers that are in reality floating palaces? Yet somehow I sometimes find myself sighing for a little less luxury and speed, and for more of the picturesqueness and goodfellowship engendered by the conditions of old-time travel, that stands out in such sharp antithesis to the ugliness and unmannerly taciturnity that has come with the railway; the ugliness is universal, but the taciturnity, for some cause I cannot fathom, is confined mostly to England.
Said a prominent citizen of Chicago to me one day, upon his arrival at St. Pancras Station, where I went to meet him as my visitor, in response to my greetings: “Well, sir, as you kindly ask me, I guess I had a mighty pleasant voyage in the steamer, and found your countrymen aboard most agreeable and entertaining; but when I got on the cars at Liverpool with four other Britishers, we had a regular Quakers’ meeting-time all the way to London, and when I chanced to make a remark they really appeared utterly astonished that a stranger should venture to address them. Now that just strikes me as peculiar, and if that’s your land-travelling manners I guess I don’t much admire them; surely there’s no sin in one stranger politely speaking to another; indeed, it seems sort of rude to me to get into a car and never as much as utter ‘Good morning,’ or ‘I beg your pardon,’ as you pass a party by to take your seat. Perhaps you can tell me just how it is that your countrymen are so stand-offish on the cars?” But we could not answer the question satisfactorily to the querist or to ourselves.
A “PHYSIC WELL”
It may be news to many—it was to me till the other day, when quite accidentally I came across the fact in an ancient road-book—that in the days of Charles II. Barnet was a watering-place of considerable repute, even disputing supremacy with its rising rival of Tunbridge Wells. In a field near the town on the Elstree Road is the formerly famous but now almost forgotten chalybeate spring known two centuries ago as the “Physic Well,” and much resorted to by the fashionable folk of the Restoration days. On glancing over the ever fresh and entertaining Diary of Samuel Pepys, that chatty old-time road-traveller, who was always getting up “betimes” and starting off somewhere or another, I noted the following entry:—“11 August 1667 (Lord’s Day).—Up by four o’clock, and ready with Mrs. Turner” (why so often without your wife, good Mr. Pepys?) “to take coach before five; and set out on our journey, and got to the Wells at Barnett by seven o’clock” (not a great rate of speed), “and there found many people a-drinking; but the morning is a very cold morning, so as we were very cold all the way in the coach.... So after drinking three glasses, and the women nothing” (wise women), “we back by coach to Barnett, where to the Red Lyon, where we ’light, and went up into the great room, and drank and eat ... and so to Hatfield,” where he “took coach again, and got home with great content.”
Amongst my prized possessions is a quaint and ancient map of London and the country for about twenty miles round. This interesting map I find, by an inscription enclosed in a roll at the foot, was printed, and presumably engraved, in Amsterdam, when I cannot say, for unfortunately no date is given; an antiquarian friend of mine, however (an authority on old prints), declares it to be of about the time of Charles II., though he says it might possibly be copied from an earlier production of the same kind and made up to that approximate date. It is just probable, therefore, that Mr. Pepys may have seen, and used, a similar map; and on mine I find “Barnett Wells” duly marked at a point about a mile south-west of the town.
These ancient maps, besides being very interesting, oftentimes reveal the origin of puzzling place-names otherwise untraceable; for instance, I never could account for the peculiar title of the little Sussex town of Uckfield until one day I found it spelt “Oakefield” on an old map, and as oaks still abound in the locality, I have no doubt that Uckfield was evolved therefrom; and I could enumerate many other instances of a like nature. So, on further consulting my Amsterdam chart, I find Hatfield, which we shall reach in due course, given as “Heathfield,”—now from this to Hatfield is an easy transition; next I observe that the country immediately north of Barnet is represented as wild and unenclosed, and is marked “Gladmore Heath.” A corner of this bears the gruesome but suggestive title “Dead-man’s Bottom”: it is highly probable that the famous battle of Barnet was fought on this open waste, it being a suitable site for such a conflict, and the “Dead-man’s Bottom” may mark
AN INTERESTING MAP
the spot where a number of the slain were buried. Hertfordshire is also rendered, as now generally pronounced, “Hartfordshire,” so perhaps it is the spelling, not the pronunciation, that has changed. A wonderful production is this old map, for in the apparently sparsely populated country around the then moderate-sized city of London each church tower is pictured in miniature; even solitary houses, including numerous farmsteads, are so shown; tiny drawings of windmills abound; and on the rivers, wheels are marked here and there, evidently intended to point out the position of sundry water-mills; bridges over the rivers are infrequent, but fords across and ferries over them are plentiful; now and again one is reminded of other days and other ways by a dot, inscribed above or below, simply but sufficiently “The Gallows”—a familiar but gruesome spectacle, the reality of which must often have been forced on the unwelcome sight of past-time travellers, and possibly haunted the memories and dreams of the more nervous amongst them for long afterwards. Even at one lonely place the map condescends to place a solitary tree with the title “Half-way Tree.” On the little river Wandle several water-mills are shown, most of which bear merely names, but sometimes is added the kind of mill. I note on this same short stream the following kinds: “Iron mill,” “copper mill,” “pouder mill,” and one “brasile mill,” whatever that may be. On the river Lea I find a “paper mill,” but that is the only one of the sort I can discover, though “pouder” mills abound. The latter perhaps were called into requisition by the recent Civil wars. One lonely house is marked “hanted.” Could this possibly mean haunted? But I must stop my disquisition, for I could easily discourse for a whole chapter upon this curious map, were I to let my pen run away with me as it is inclined to do.
CHAPTER II
Memorial of a great battle—An ancient fire-cresset—Free feasting!—Country quiet—Travellers’ tales—Hatfield—An Elizabethan architect—An author’s tomb—Day-dreaming—Mysterious roadside monuments—Great North Road versus Great Northern Railway—Stevenage—Chats by the way—Field life—Nature as a painter—Changed times.
Leaving Barnet, we soon reached a bit of triangular green enlivened by a pond that was just then monopolised by geese; here, where the old and formerly famous “Parliamentary and Mail Coach Turnpike” to Holyhead diverges from the almost equally famous Great North Road of the pre-railway days, stands a gray stone obelisk that challenges the attention of the passer-by, and is inscribed with history thus:
Here was
Fought the
Famous Battle
Between Edward
the 4th. and the
Earl of Warwick
April the 14th.
Anno
1471.
In which the Earl
Was defeated
And Slain.
I regret to have to record that immediately below this inscription, cut also in the stone, and in the same kind and size of lettering, is the obtrusive warning notice, so over-familiar to nineteenth-century eyes, “Stick no Bills.” What bathos this!
Here at Hadley the ancient church tower is surmounted by a rare and interesting relic of the never-returning past in the shape of an iron cresset or fire-beacon. The last time that this was used seriously was in 1745, during the scare occasioned by the Stuart rising in the North. The story goes that at the late hour in the evening when the beacon was lighted, a large party from London, who had been feasting at the “Red Lion” at Barnet upon the best that mine host could lay before them, all rushed out during the excitement and quite forgot to return and pay their reckoning! A curious example of forgetfulness caused by excitement, as the fact that their bill remained unpaid never appears to have occurred to any of the party in after days! This is a sample of one of the stories of the road that, improved upon and embellished to fancy, the coachmen of the past used to entertain their passengers with; there was hardly a house, and certainly very few inns, on the way but had some little incident, history, or tradition connected with it; these latter afforded the jehus of the period (past-masters in the art of embroidering fiction upon fact) plenty of raw material for the production of their wonderful fund of anecdotes. My grandfather, who had travelled a good deal by coach in his early life, said that the virtue of these stories lay not so much in the matter as in
AN ANCIENT BEACON
the inimitable way in which they were told; but therein is the art of story-telling—the craft of making much out of simple materials.
The primitive mode of signalling events by beacon had this serious drawback, that, should any one beacon by accident or set purpose be set alight, needless alarm was forthwith spread throughout the land, and no amount of care in watching the various collections of piled-up wood and other inflammable material could, experience proved, prevent mischievous or designing persons from sometimes surreptitiously lighting them; on the other hand, when they were lighted legitimately, possibly fraught with warning of great import to the State, sudden fogs and storms occasionally prevented the message from speeding on its way. It must have been both a picturesque and a thrilling sight in “the brave days of old” for the expectant watchers on some commanding eminence to observe the progress of the blazing beacons, as one answered the other from height to height, the ruddy glare of the fiery signals gleaming plainly forth against the darkness of the night.
On from Hadley to Hatfield we had an excellent road, that led us through a prettily wooded and pleasantly undulating country. As we drove along, rejoicing in the pure sweet air and rural quietude after the smoke-laden atmosphere and noise of town, the sunshine kept struggling through the gray clouds overhead, and great gleams of golden light came and went, warming and brightening up the little world around us, and enhancing the natural beauty of the scenery by the varied effects they produced on the landscape. A gleamy day is a picture-making and picture-suggesting day, as artists full well know. By the time we reached Hatfield the sun above had obtained complete mastery of the situation, and was doing his best to make all things below pleasant for us.
At Hatfield we pulled up at another “Red Lion,” and there we elected to rest a while and “refresh the inner man,” as the country-paper reporters have it, for our halt at Barnet was solely for the benefit of our horses. In the coffee-room we found a party of four gentlemen lunching; laughing and talking, their conversation was carried on in so loud a tone of voice that, willing or unwilling, we could not help hearing nearly all they said; their jovial jokes they made public property, and the general good-humour and enjoyment of the party was quite infectious. Manifestly they had no fear of strangers overhearing their tales and talk, which rather surprised us, as sundry anecdotal reminiscences of famous personages were freely related, which, if one could only have felt sure of their veracity, would have been most entertaining. It was indeed a right merry, possibly an inventive, and certainly a rather noisy, quartet. Truly the various people that the road-traveller comes in contact with from time to time often dispute interest with the scenery. As Sir Arthur Helps says, “In travel it is remarkable how much more pleasure we obtain from unexpected incidents than from deliberate sight-seeing,” and it certainly appears to me that a driving tour specially
ARTIST AND AUTHOR
lends itself to meeting with incidents. Such an informal and unusual way of wandering puts you as a rule on a friendly, companionable footing with everybody you meet: people take an interest in your journey, they confide in you and you in them, there is a sort of freemasonry about the road that has its attractions, you seem to belong to the countryside, to be a part and parcel of your surroundings for the time being, in strong contrast with the stranger suddenly arriving by the railway from somewhere far away. He is brought, the driving tourist comes—a distinction with a difference!
But to return to the coffee-room of our inn. Amongst the anecdotes that were forced upon our attention, one still remains in my memory, and this I think worth repeating as a fair sample of the rest, and because it deserves to be true, though possibly it is not, or only in part; however, here it is, and I trust if any one of that merry company should by chance read this, they will pardon the liberty I have taken—or else be more careful of their conversation for the future in public! The story is of a perfectly harmless nature, and characteristic of the parties concerned, or I would not repeat it. It appears then that one day Carlyle was making a first call upon Millais at his fine mansion in Palace Gate. After looking around the sumptuous interior, Carlyle presently exclaimed, in his gruff manner, “What! all from paint?” Millais made no reply at the moment, but as his guest was leaving he quietly remarked, “By the way, what a reputation you’ve got, Carlyle—and all from ink.”
One anecdote begets another, and the foregoing distantly reminds me of a story of Turner that came to me through a private source, which therefore I do not believe has got into print yet—but I may be mistaken. Once upon a time then—as the fairy stories begin, for I am not certain about the exact date, and do not care to guess it—a certain art patron demanded of Turner the price of one of his pictures, with a view to purchasing the same, and deeming that Turner asked rather a large sum, he jokingly exclaimed, “What, all those golden guineas for so much paint on so much canvas?” To which the famous artist replied, “Oh no, not for the paint, but for the use of the brains to put it on with!” and I think the artist scored.
Now I am wandering again, but not by road, as I set out to do, and instead of enjoying the pleasant scenery and fresh air, I am wasting the time indoors chatting about people. Let us get into the open country again, and before we start on the next stage, there will be just time to stroll round and take a glance at the fine old Jacobean pile of Hatfield House, a glorious specimen of the renaissance of English architecture that vividly recalls the half-forgotten fact that once we were, without gainsaying, an artistic people; for no one but a great artist could have designed such a picturesque and stately abode, two qualities not so easy to combine as may be imagined.
It is a most singular fact that the name of the architect of this majestic mansion is not known; but the building so distinctly reminds me of the work of John Thorpe that I have no hesitation in putting it down to his creative genius. He was beyond all doubt the greatest architect of the Elizabethan age; it was he who designed the glorious mansions of Burleigh “by Stamford town,” Longford Castle, Wollaton Hall, most probably Hardwicke Hall, Holland House, and many other notable and picturesque piles, not to forget Kirby in Northants, now, alas! a splendid ruin, which we shall visit on our homeward way.
THE STONES OF ENGLAND
Writing of the stately homes of England, it seems to me that the stones of England have their story to tell as well as the “Stones of Venice,” over which Ruskin goes into such raptures. Why is it ever thus, that other lands seem more attractive than our own; wherein lies the virtue of the far-away? Who will do for Old England at our own doors what Ruskin has so lovingly done for Venice of the past? What a song in stone is Salisbury’s splendid cathedral, with its soaring spire rising like an arrow into the air; what a poem is Tintern’s ruined abbey by the lovely Wye-side; what a romance in building is Haddon’s feudal Hall; what a picture is Compton Wynyates’ moated manor-house! and these are but well-known specimens, jotted down hastily and at haphazard, of countless other such treasures, that are scattered all over our pleasant land in picturesque profusion, but which I will not attempt to enumerate catalogue fashion.
Between Hatfield and Welwyn I find no mention of the country in my note-book, nor does my memory in any way call it to mind; the scenery, therefore, could not have impressed us, and so may be termed of the uneventful order. At the sleepy little town of Welwyn we came upon its gray-toned church standing close by the road, and as we noticed the door thereof was invitingly open, we called a halt in order to take a peep inside. We made it a point this journey never to pass by an ancient church, if near at hand, without stepping within for a glance, should happily, as in this case, the door be open; but with one or two rare exceptions we did not go a-clerk-hunting,—that sport is apt to pall upon the traveller in time, unless he be a very hardened antiquary or ardent ecclesiologist. It was an open or closed door that generally settled the point for us, whether to see a certain church or leave it unseen! We were not guide-book compilers, we did not undertake our journey with any set idea of “doing” everything, we took it solely for the purpose of spending a pleasant holiday, so we went nowhere nor saw anything under compulsion. I think it well to explain our position thus clearly at the start, so that I may not hereafter be reproached for passing this or that unvisited; nor now that our outing is over do I believe we missed much that was noteworthy on the way—nothing, indeed, of which I am aware; though, by some strange caprice of fate, it ever seems that when the traveller returns home from a tour, should anything escape his observation thereon, some kind friend is certain to assure him that just what he failed to see happened to be the very thing of the whole journey the best worth seeing! Indeed, this incident so
A SELF-APPOINTED GUIDE
regularly re-occurs to me, that I have become quite philosophical on the subject! There is no novelty about the same experience often repeated; the only rejoinder it provokes on my part is a smiling “Of course,” or a mild, remonstrating “Oh! I left that for another day.”
On entering Welwyn church, we encountered a talkative old body; why she was there I cannot say, for she was apparently doing nothing, and this is no tourist-haunted region with guides of both sexes on the watch and wait for the unwary; but there she was, a substantial personage not to be overlooked. At once she attached herself to us, and asked if we had come to see Dr. Young’s tomb—“him as wrote the Night Thoughts.” We meekly replied that we did not even know that he was buried there. “Well,” she responded, “now I do wonders at that, I thoughts as how everybody knew it.” From the superior tone in which she said this, we felt that she looked down upon us as ignoramuses—such is the lot of the traveller who does not know everything! Then she pointed out with a grimy finger—assuming the aggravating air of one who has valuable information to impart, and will impart it whether you will or no—a marble slab put up to the memory of the worthy doctor (I presume he was a worthy doctor) on the south wall of the nave. Having duly inspected this, our self-appointed guide suddenly exclaimed, still maintaining her amusing didactic manner, “He’d much better have gone to bed and slept like a good Christian than have sit up o’ nights a-writing his thoughts.” We weakly smiled acquiescence, though perhaps it was hardly a fair thing to do, for we had to confess to ourselves that we had not even read the book in question. “Have you?” we queried. “Lor’ bless you, sir,” replied she, still in an authoritative tone of voice, “books is all rubbish, I never reads rubbish; give me the papers with some news in ’em, I says, that’s the reading for me,” and with this we took our hurried departure. We have taught the people to read, which is a most excellent thing, but, from all my experience, the country folk prefer newspapers, frequently of a trashy nature, to solid books; for the present they devour the “penny dreadful,” whilst the cheap classic remains unread!
Out of Welwyn the road mounted slightly, and to our left we passed a large park; the sun’s rays glinting down between the big tree-trunks therein sent long lines of golden light athwart the smooth sward, and the lengthening shadows suggested to us that the day was growing old, and that, unless we wished to be belated, we had better hasten on. Then followed a pleasant stretch of wooded country, the west all aglow with the glory of the setting sun, whilst a soft grayness was gradually spreading over the east, blotting out all trivial details, and causing the landscape there to assume a dim, mysterious aspect; in that direction the scenery might be commonplace enough in the glaring light of mid-day—possibly it was, but just then under that vague effect it looked quite poetical, and by giving our romantic fancies full rein we could almost have imagined that there lay the enchanted forest of
A ROADSIDE ENIGMA
fairy-tale renown. A little occasional romancing may be allowed on a driving tour; he is a dull and unpoetic soul, indeed, who never indulges in a moment’s harmless day-dreaming now and again!
Soon the slumberous, unprogressive little town of Stevenage came in view, and just before it, on a green space to the right of the road, we espied six curious-looking, grass-grown mounds all in a row, like so many pigmy green pyramids. We afterwards learnt that these are supposed to be Danish Barrows; but learned antiquaries, like most of their kind, are not all agreed upon this point, though the majority hold to the Danish theory. Still, Danish or not, there they stand to challenge the curiosity of the observant wayfarer. A roadside enigma that doubtless puzzled our forefathers, and afforded food for discussion when journeying in these parts, the railway traveller misses them and much else besides as he is whirled through the land at a speed that only permits of a blurred impression of fields and woods, of rivers and hills, of church towers, towns, hamlets, and farmsteads—that is, when the train is not rushing through a cutting, or plunging into a darksome tunnel. In a scenic sense between the Great North Road and the Great Northern Railway is a vast gulf!
At the present day, at any rate at the time we were there, these prehistoric relics were serving the undistinguished purpose of a ready-made and somewhat original recreation-ground for the town’s children; for as we passed by we observed quite a number of them climbing up and down the barrows, playing “King of the Castle” thereon, and generally romping over and round about them with much noisy merriment. I really think that these ancient mounds deserve to be better cared for; those things that are worthy of being preserved should be preserved, for antiquity once destroyed can never be replaced; it is too late when a monument of the past has disappeared to discover how interesting it was.
At Stevenage we put up for the night at the “White Lion,” a homely little hostelry, where we found clean and comfortable, if not luxurious, quarters for ourselves, and good accommodation for our horses, and not being of an exacting nature, were well content. So ended our first long day’s wanderings.
We had seen so much since we left London in the early morning, that we felt it difficult to realise, on the authority of our copy of Paterson’s Roads (last edition of 1829), we had only travelled some thirty-one miles; the precise distance we could not arrive at, since Paterson takes his measurement from “Hick’s Hall,” and we did not start from the site thereof; indeed, exactly where “Hick’s Hall” stood I am not very clear—somewhere in Smithfield, I believe.
Next morning, following the excellent example of the chatty Mr. Pepys, and to borrow his favourite expression, we “awoke betimes,” to find the sunshine streaming in through our windows, whilst a glance outside revealed to us a glorious bright blue sky, flecked with fleecy fine-weather clouds.
LEISURELY TRAVEL
This cheery morning greeting could not be resisted, so, early though it was, we got up and dressed without any needless delay, and, sketch-book in hand, set forth to explore the place before breakfast, which, however, we took the precaution of ordering to be ready for us on our return, for it is trying for a hungry man to have to wait for his meal! Before going out, however, we paid our usual visit of inspection to the horses, who, we discovered, were having their toilet performed for them, luxurious creatures! though not without much “sishing,” and subdued exclamations of “Whoa! my beauty,” “Steady there now,” “Hold up, can’t yer”—sounds and utterances dear to the hearts of grooms and ostlers. We were glad to note that the horses looked fit and fresh, and not a whit the worse for their previous hard day’s work.
On the road we have always found that it is the pace rather than the distance that “knocks up cattle”; but haste formed no part of our programme, as we travelled to see and enjoy the scenery, not merely to pass through it, to sketch, to photograph, to inspect a ruin, or to do whatever took our fancy at the time; also to chat at our leisure with any one who appeared to be interesting and willing to chat—prepared under those conditions to converse with anybody from a ploughboy to a peer that chance might bring across our path, so that we might learn “how the world wags” according to the different parties’ views.
As Montaigne remarked, “Every man knows some one thing better than I do, and when I meet a stranger therefore I engage him in conversation to find that one thing out.” So we have discovered that even a lightly-esteemed ploughboy, familiar all his life with Nature in her many moods, at home in the fields and hedgerows, could tell us many things we did not know, which are common knowledge to him. A chat with an intelligent ploughboy, for such boys exist, may prove a profitable and interesting experience, for perchance it may be racy of the soil, full of the ways of wild birds and winged things, of the doings of hares, rabbits, weasels, foxes, and other animals belonging to the countryside, and of countless idle-growing things besides; above all, it is genuinely rural, and conveys an unmistakable flavour of the open air.
An intelligent rustic is unconsciously a close Nature-observer, and by listening to what he has got to say, if you can only get him to talk and keep him to his subject, you may make valuable use of the eyes of others who can see, but give small thought to what they see.
The works of White of Selborne and of Richard Jefferies have proved how attractive and refreshing to the town-tired brain are the faithful and simple record of the natural history of the English fields and woodlands, and the descriptions of the charms and beauties of the English country in all its varied aspects. One great value of such writings is that they induce people to search for, and teach them how to seek out, similar beauties for themselves in their everyday surroundings, that they never before so much as imagined to exist. So that truly a new, a costless, and a lasting pleasure in life is opened out to them.
A “THOROUGHFARE” TOWN
We found Stevenage to be a quiet, neat little town of the “thoroughfare” type, to employ a term much in vogue in the coaching days when describing places consisting chiefly of one long street. Wandering about, we noticed an old building that had manifestly been a hostelry of some importance in the pre-railway period, the archway giving entrance to the stable-yard still remaining. Now the building is converted into a pleasant residence, though, owing to the necessities of its former uses, it stands too close to the roadway to afford that privacy which the home-loving Briton so dearly delights in; which, on the other hand, the average American citizen so heartily dislikes, considering such comparative seclusion to make for dulness, and to savour of unsociability. Such old buildings, converted, wholly or in part, from inns to houses, are to be found frequently along the Great North Road. A stranger, not aware of the fact, might well wonder why those great houses were built with their ample arches in the little village street, and so close upon the roadside.
At one end of the town we found a rather pretty gabled cottage with a high-pitched roof, from which rose a good group of chimneys. This cottage, with its tiny garden railed off from the footpath by a wooden paling, made quite a charming subject for the pencil, and was the first to adorn our sketch-book. Whilst putting a few finishing touches to our drawing, a native came up. An artist at work always seems to have an irresistible attraction for country people. He opened up a conversation by admiring our sketch, though in a qualified manner. He was pleased to say that it was “mighty” pretty, only he preferred a photograph to a drawing any day. He had had a photograph taken of his house lately, and on the photograph you could count every brick on the walls and every tile on the roofs. “Now, that’s what I call a proper kind of picture,—not but that yours is very nice for hand-work”!
This is a very fair specimen of the criticisms that the long-enduring landscape painter has frequently to put up with when at work in the open.
Next our art-critic and photograph-admirer presumed that we must be strangers, as he knew most of the folk round about, but did not remember having “sighted us afore.” We replied that we were. “Now, do you know,” responded he, “I was sure of that”; and seeing no advantage in further continuing the conversation, we hastened off to our inn—and breakfast.
In spite of our early rising, it was ten o’clock before we got “under weigh,” but when one sets out exploring and sketching, to say nothing of gossiping, time flies.
It was one of those rare and perfect days that come only now and then in the year, which, when they come, linger lovingly in the memory for long after. A stilly day of soft sunshine wherein is no glare; overhead great rounded clouds of golden white, shading off into a tender pearly-gray, were sailing slowly across a sea of pure, pale blue,—clouds
CLOUD SCENERY
ever varying in size and form, so that the eye was involuntarily attracted to the scenery of the sky, as well as to that of the land; for the changeful sky-scape—as Turner, Constable, and other painters have shown—lends a wonderful charm to our English scenery,—clouds that caused vast cool-gray shadows to chase each other in endless succession over the wide countryside, till, space-diminished, the shadows vanished into infinity, where the circling gray of the dim horizon melted into a misty nothingness.
The warmth of the cheerful sunshine was tempered by a soothing southerly wind—a lazy wind that came to us laden with a mingling of fragrant country odours distilled from flower, field, tree, and countless green growing things as it lightly passed them by. It was a day inspiriting enough, one would have imagined, to convert even a confirmed pessimist into a cheerful optimist, and for us it made the fact of simply existing a something to be thankful for!
Manifestly the Fates were kindly disposed towards us. It was no small matter to start forth thus in the fulness and freshness of such a morning, free as the air we breathed, with our holiday only just beginning, its pleasures barely tasted, and positively no solicitude whatever except to reach an inn for the night; in truth, there was no room for the demon Care in our dog-cart, so he was compelled to stay behind “out of sight” and “out of mind.” We were purely on pleasure bent, and we managed very successfully to maintain that part of our programme from the beginning to the end of our tour. Good health means good spirits, and being out so much in the open air, we laid in a plentiful stock of the former. An out-of-door life, such as the one we led, without fatigue, and with a sufficiency of interest to pleasurably engage the attention, is the finest tonic in the world, I verily believe, for mind and body, bracing both up; so that the answer of the happy driving tourist to the doleful query, “Is life worth living?” would be, to employ the schoolboy’s expressive slang, “Very much so.”
After Stevenage we entered upon a pleasantly undulating and purely agricultural and pastoral country, with nothing noteworthy till we came to a neat little village that we made out from our map to be Graveley. Here an unpretending inn, the “George and Dragon” to wit, boasted of a fine wrought-iron support for its sign, doubtless a relic of a past prosperity when this was a much-travelled highway, and the hostelries on the road had the benefit of many customers. We noticed that the painting of the sign, at least in our estimation, was sadly inferior in artistic spirit to the clever craftsmanship displayed in the iron-work supporting it; possibly the sign-board was of old as artistically limned as its support was wrought, but the weathering of years would efface the drawing and colouring, and later and less skilful hands may have renewed the design, whilst, of course, the more enduring iron would still retain its ancient charm of form unimpaired.
The gracefulness and bold curving and twisting of the metal-work that supports and upholds the sign of many an ancient coaching inn had a peculiar fascination for us, and frequently brought our pencil
A CONCEIT IN METAL
into requisition to record their varied outlines and quaint conceits, that truly splendid specimen of the “Bell” at Stilton—about which I shall have more to say when we arrive there—especially delighting us. At the sign of a certain “White Hart” elsewhere we could not but imagine that the open iron-work above it in the shape of a heart was not accidental, but intended as a play on words in metal, if the expression may be allowed.
After Graveley the road plucked up a little spirit and the scenery improved, just as though it were doing its best to please us. At one point there suddenly opened a fine view to the left, reaching over a vast extent of country bounded by an uneven horizon of wooded hills—hills that showed as a long, low undulating line, deeply blue, but enlivened by touches of greeny-gold where the sunshine rested for a moment here and there; it was as if Nature in one of her lavish moods had washed the horizon over with a tint of ultramarine, “for who can paint like Nature?”—little she recks the quantity or the rarity of the hues she employs, miles upon miles oftentimes, and that for a mere transient effect! To our right also our charmed visions ranged over a wide expanse of wooded plain, so space-expressing in its wealth of distances, the blue of which made us realise the ocean of air that lay between us and the remote horizon, the reality of the invisible!
After the confined limits of the house-bound streets of town, our eyes positively rejoiced in the unaccustomed freedom of roving unrestrained over so much space—a sudden change from yards to miles! I have found from experience what a relief it is for the eye to be able thus to alter its focus from the near to the far-away: the vision like the mind is apt to become cramped by not being able to take a broad view of things. I verily believe that the eyes are strengthened by having the daily opportunity of exercising their full functions; this may be a fanciful belief on my part, but I hold it and write advisedly.
Gradually, as we proceeded, our road widened out, and was bounded on either hand by pleasant grassy margins, that, had we been on a riding instead of a driving tour, would certainly have tempted us to indulge in a canter. These grassy margins used to form part of the hard, well-kept highway when there was room for four coaches abreast at one time thereon. I wonder whether these spare spaces will ever be utilised for cycle tracks?
What, I further wonder, would our ancestors—could they come back to life again, and travel once more along the old familiar roads—think of the new steel-steed, and what would they make of the following notice, appended to the sign of an old inn on the way, which we deemed worthy of being copied?—
Good Accommodation
and
Stabling
for
Cyclists and Motorists.
This brings to mind the truth that lies in the old Latin saying, Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis.
CHAPTER III
A gipsy encampment—A puzzling matter—Farming and farmers past and present—An ancient market-town—A picturesque bit of old-world architecture—Gleaners—Time’s changes—A house in two counties—A wayside inn—The commercial value of the picturesque.
On one of the grassy wastes by the roadside, a sheltered corner overhung by branching elms, we espied a gipsy encampment. A very effective and pretty picture the encampment made with its belongings and green setting of grass and foliage. There were three brilliantly-coloured caravans drawn up in an irregular line and partly screening from view the same number of brown tents; in and out of caravans and tents sun-tanned and gay-kerchiefed children were noisily rampaging; from amidst the brown tents a spiral film of faint blue smoke lazily ascended, to be lost to sight in the bluer sky above; and to complete a ready-made picture, the gipsies’ horses were tethered close at hand, grazing on the rough sward. Truly the gipsy is a picturesque personage, though I have to confess he is not much beloved in the country; yet I should regret to have him improved entirely away, for he does bring colour and the flavour of wild, free life on to the scene, well suiting the English landscape.
The gipsy, for reasons best known to himself, is apt to resent the advances of strangers, even when made in the most amiable manner. The artist, who, for the sake of his picturesqueness and paintable qualities, is inclined to overlook the gipsy’s possible sins of commission on other people’s property, finds it difficult to sketch him; for myself, I am content to “snap-shot” him photographically on passing by, as I did on this occasion; which proceeding, however, he was prompt to resent with some gruffly muttered exclamation, to which we chaffingly replied, in the blandest of voices, “But you know a cat may look at a king.” Upon which he shouted after us, not in the politest of tones, “Yes, but a photograph machine ain’t a cat, and I ain’t a king, nohow,” and we felt that after all the gipsy had the best of the skirmish in words. The gipsy is manifestly no fool, or, with so many enemies on all sides, he would hardly have held his own for so long, and be extant and apparently flourishing as he is to-day. “It’s the gipsy against the world,” as a farmer once remarked to me, “and bless me if the gipsy don’t somehow score in the struggle.”
As we passed by the encampment, the incense of burning wood, mingled with sundry savoury odours, came wafted our way on the quiet air, and it appeared to us that a gipsy’s life in the summer time was a sort of continuous picnic, not without its charms. Such a charm it has indeed for some minds, that we have more than once on previous expeditions actually met imitations of the real article in the shape of lady and gentleman gipsies (the term truly seems
CARAVANNING
rather a misnomer), touring about in smartly turnedout caravans, driven by liveried coachmen. But all this seems to me far too respectable and luxurious to be quite delightful. The dash of Bohemianism about it is absurdly artificial; moreover, the coming of a caravan, both from its size and unfamiliar appearance, of necessity invites an amount of attention that is not always desirable, and is frequently very annoying. Speaking for myself, I must say that when I travel I endeavour to attract as little notice as possible; I go to observe, not to be observed. Still, every one to his taste. If I have not become a caravannist myself, it is certainly not from want of having the charms, real or imagined, of that wandering and expensive life on wheels instilled into me by a friend who owns a pleasure caravan, and has travelled over a goodly portion of southern England in it, though he had to confess to me, under close cross-examination, that there were certain “trifling” drawbacks connected with the amateur gipsy’s life: first, there was the aforementioned unavoidable publicity that a large caravan entails; then there was the slow pace such a cumbrous conveyance imposes on you at all times; the heat of the interior caused by the sun beating on the exterior in hot summer days; to say nothing of having to go, at the end of a long day’s journey, in search of camping ground for the night, entailing often a loss of time and a good deal of trouble before suitable quarters are found and permission to use them is obtained; besides this, there is stabling to secure, and a foraging expedition has to be undertaken, hardly a pleasure should the weather be wet! Whilst a simple inn is all that the more modest and less encumbered driving-tourist needs.
As we proceeded on our way, our attention was presently arrested by something strange and quite novel to us: on the telegraph wires, that stretched forth in long lines by the roadside, were suspended numerous little square bits of tin, and this for a considerable distance. The bits of tin, as they were swayed about by the wind, made weird music on the wires. Had we chanced to have driven that way at night, and heard those sounds coming directly down from the darkness above, without being able to discover the cause, we should have been much mystified; indeed, some hyper-nervous people passing there in the dark, under the same circumstances of wind and weather, might have come to the conclusion that this portion of the Great North Road was haunted. Such reputations have been established from lesser causes.
We were at a loss to account for the strange arrangement, so we looked about for somebody to question on the subject, and to solve the mystery for us if possible. There was not a soul in sight on the road, far off or near; for that matter, there never is when wanted. However, another look around revealed a man at work in a field near by, and to him we went and sought for the information desired, and this is the explanation we received in the original wording: “What be them tin things for on the telegraph postes?” They were really on the wires, but I have long ago discovered that you
A CHAT BY THE WAY
must not expect exactness from the average countryman. “Why, they be put there on account of the partridges. You see, the birds, when they be a-flying fast like, don’t always see them wires, and lots of them gets hurt and killed by striking themselves against them. You know, sir, as how partridges is partridges, and has to be taken great care on; if the quality only took the same care of the poor working-man, we should be happy.” The poor working-man, or labourer, in the present case did not appear very miserable or poorly clad, so we ventured to remark: “Well, you don’t seem particularly unhappy anyhow.” At the same moment a small coin of the realm changed ownership in return for the information imparted, and we went our way, and the man resumed his work, after promising to drink our very good healths that very night, and we saw no reason to doubt that the promise would be faithfully kept. The one thing you may positively rely upon the countryman doing, if you give him the opportunity, is “to drink your health.”
I may note here that during my many chats with the English labourer, in different counties far apart from each other, I have found their chief complaint (when they have one and venture to express it) is not so much the lowness of their wage, or the hardness of their work, as the poorness of their dwellings. Even the farm-hand begins to expect something better than the too often cold, damp, and draughty cottages that for generations past, in some parts of the country more than others, his “rude forefathers” had to put up with uncomplainingly, or otherwise. It seems to me that the best way of stopping the emigration from the country to the town is to make the country more attractive to the countryman by housing him better. “But cottages don’t pay,” as a landlord once informed me, and in this age it is difficult to make men enter into philanthropic enterprises—unless they return a certain per cent! A moneymaking generation likes to mix up philanthropy with profit—to do good openly and make it pay privately!
From the agricultural labourer upwards to the farmer, and from the farmer to the landowner, is an easy and natural transition. Now, since I commenced taking my holidays on the road several years ago, agricultural depression has, alas! gradually deepened, and my driving tours in rural England have brought me into frequent contact with both landowner and tenant farmer, and now and again with that sadly growing rarity the independent and sturdy yeoman who farms his own little freehold, perchance held by his ancestors for long centuries; with all of these I have conversed about the “bad times,” and have obtained, I think, a fairly comprehensive view of the situation from each standpoint. Endeavouring, as far as is possible with fallible human nature, to take the unprejudiced position of a perfectly neutral onlooker—a position that has caused me in turn to heartily sympathise with each party—the conclusion that I have reluctantly come to is this, that unless a great war should be a disturbing factor in
AN OLD SAYING
the case—an ever-possible contingency, by the way—with cheapened ocean transit and competition with new countries, land in Old England will no longer produce a profit to the modern tenant as well as to the landlord, and pay big tithes besides. It must be borne in mind that the tenant farmer of to-day has progressed like the rest of the world. He needs must possess a certain capital, and no longer is he or his family content with the simple life or pleasures of his predecessors. His wife, son, and daughters will not work on the farm, nor superintend the dairy, as of old; they all expect, and I think rightly expect, in an age when Board School children learn the piano and other accomplishments, a little more refinement and ease. And if this be so, I take it that the only way to solve the difficulty of making the land pay is somehow to get back the disappearing yeoman: the pride of possession will alone ensure prosperous farming. A local saying, possibly pertinent to the question, was repeated to me one day by a large tenant farmer in the Midlands, who had lost by farming well. It runs thus:
He who improves may flit,
He who destroys may sit.
And much truth underlies the proverbs of the countryside. Now a yeoman would not have to “flit” for improving his freehold, and a man does not generally destroy his own.
Whilst our thoughts had been wandering thus, the dog-cart had kept steadily on its way, and our reverie was broken by finding ourselves in the quaint old market-town of Baldock, driving down its spacious and sunny main street, which we noticed with pleasure was lined with trees, and bound by irregular-roofed buildings, mellowed by age into a delicious harmony of tints. Nature never mixes her colours crudely. I know no better study of colour harmonies than the weather-painting of a century-old wall, with its splashes of gold, and silver, and bronze lichen, its delicate greens and grays, its russets and oranges, and all the innumerable and indescribable hues that the summer suns and winter storms of forgotten years have traced upon its surface—hues blending, contrasting, and commingling, the delight of every true artist, and his despair to depict aright. With buildings age is the beautifier; even Tintern, with its roofless aisles and broken arches, could not have looked half as lovely in the full glory of its Gothic prime, when its walls were freshly set, its sculptures new, and traceries recently worked, as it looks now. No building, however gracefully designed, can ever attain the perfection of its beauty till Time has placed his finishing touches thereon, toning down this and tinting that, rounding off a too-sharp angle here, and making rugged a too-smooth corner there, adorning the walls with ivy and clinging creepers, and decorating the roof with lustrous lichen!
Baldock had such a genuine air of antiquity about it, with its ancient architecture and slumberous calm, so foreign to the present age, that we felt that without any undue strain upon the imagination we could picture ourselves as medieval travellers
QUAINT ALMS-HOUSES
arriving in a medieval market-town! Baldock does not suggest, as so many country towns unfortunately do, a bit of suburban London uprooted and dumped down in a distant shire. No, Baldock has somehow managed to retain its own characteristic individuality, and it pleases the lover of the picturesque past because of this. To the left of the broad roadway our eyes were charmed by the sight of a quaint group of ancient alms-houses, situated within a walled enclosure, through which wall a graceful archway gave entrance to the homes. Whilst we were admiring this pleasing specimen of old-time work, one of the inmates came out and invited us inside; but the interior, upon inspection, did not attract us as the exterior had done: the latter had not been spoilt by furniture or paper, or any other modern addition, to disturb its charming and restful harmony. The rooms looked comfortable enough, however, and the old body who showed us over declared that she was more than satisfied with her quarters,—even life in an alms-house could not affect her manifestly cheerful and contented disposition. A prince in a palace could not have looked more satisfied with his lot. Inscribed on a stone tablet let into the front of the building we read:
Theis Almes Howses are
the gieft of Mr Iohn Wynne
cittezen of London Latelye
Deceased who hath left a
Yeareley stipend to everey
poore of either howses to
the Worldes End. September
Anno Domini 1621.
And may the stipend be regularly paid to the poor “to the Worldes End,” according to the donor’s directions, and not be devoted to other and very different purposes, as sometimes has been the case elsewhere with similar gifts, under the specious pretext of changed times!
Judging from the date affixed to these alms-houses, they were standing just as they are now, looking doubtless a little newer, when Charles I. passed a prisoner through here in the charge of General Fairfax; on which occasion, according to long-cherished local tradition, the vicar offered him for his refreshment some wine in the Communion cup. That must have been an eventful day for Baldock.
Not only the alms-houses, but the other buildings round about, of red brick, with the pearly-gray bloom of age over them, were very pleasant to look upon. Perhaps their colour never was so crude and assertive as that of the modern red brick with which we construct our cheap misnamed Queen Anne villas—which have nothing of the Queen Anne about them,—a red that stares at you, and is of one uniform, inartistic hue—a hue quite on a par as regards unsightliness with the chilly, eye-displeasing blue of Welsh slates. Since the railways have come and cheapened communication, Welsh slates have spread over all the land like an ugly curse; you find them everywhere—they have displaced the cheerful ruddy tiles that so well suit the gentle gloom of the English climate and the soft green of its landscapes, they have ousted the pleasant gray stone slab and homely
THE MAGIC OF FAME
thatch. Welsh slates are bad enough, but, alas! there is even a lower depth of ugliness. Corrugated iron is still more hideous, and this I sadly note is coming into use as a roofing material; it is cheap and effectual, absolutely waterproof—and such an eyesore! How is it that things are so seldom cheap and beautiful—truly there are exceptions, but these only prove the rule—are these two qualities sworn enemies? If only the Welsh slates were of the delicious greeny-gray tint of the more expensive Cumberland ones, it would be a different matter. It is an astonishing thing how even good architects are neglectful of colour in their buildings, and what comparatively small thought they devote to the beauty of the roof.
Many people possibly would see nothing to admire or commend in Baldock; it would probably impress the average individual as being a sleepy, old-fashioned sort of place, deadly dull, and wholly devoid of interest; so doubtless the same individual would consider Stratford-on-Avon, had not Shakespeare been born there, and had not that magic accident of his birth caused the town to be visited and written about by famous authors, its beauties sought out and belauded by guide-book compilers, its quaint old-world bits of architecture to be sketched and painted and photographed endlessly, so that we all know how to admire it. Now, so far as I am aware, no very notable person has been born at Baldock, so the tourist comes not thither; and with nothing eventful to chronicle about the town, nothing to commend it but its quiet naturalness and picturesqueness, which it shares with many another ancient English market-town, Baldock will have to sleep on unfamed, for its quiet charms are not of the nature to assert themselves or appeal to everybody. There is a beauty that requires searching after, which, not being pronounced, the eye needs training to see. Still, I think that even the most unobservant traveller, on passing through the quiet little town, must note its pleasing look of mellowness and naturalness, the latter of which qualities is attractively refreshing in this age of artificiality.
Out of Baldock our road rose gradually on an embankment, possibly one of the later improvements made by the old Turnpike Trust, when there was actually a feeling amongst the coach proprietors that they might successfully compete with the coming iron horse—an idea that took some time to dispel, for even as late as October 1837 I find, from an old coaching poster so dated, that the “Red Rover” from London to Manchester was re-established as a commercial speculation. How long this “well-appointed coach” ran after its establishment I cannot say.
From the top of the rise we obtained a good view of Baldock, that, with the woods around, the silvery sheen of water below, and the soft sky above, made a very pretty picture; so pretty, indeed, that the temptation to sketch it was not to be resisted. But later on we had to harden our hearts and pass by many a picturesque spot without using our pencil, otherwise we should have made more sketches than
OLD CUSTOMS
miles per hour, and our journey would not have been finished by Christmas time. To the artist eye, accustomed to look out for beauty, rural England is one succession of pictures!
We now struck upon a purely farming country, where the fields were large and divided by hedgerows into a sort of glorified and many-tinted chessboard—not a happy comparison certainly, but “’twill serve.” In some of the fields we saw gleaners, women and children, at work amongst the stubble,—I had nearly written at play, so unlike work did their occupation seem, for the children were romping, and the women were laughing and chatting, and it did our hearts good to hear the merry prattle and cheerful voices. Would all labour were as lightsome!
We had an idea that the gleaner, like the almost forgotten flail, was a thing of the past, but were delighted to find that the good old custom, honoured by over two thousand years of observance, sung of by poets and beloved by painters, has not wholly disappeared, and that some of the romance of the fields is left to us. The flail, that used to knock out the corn on the old barn floors with much thumping, I have not met with for years long past, but I believe, from what I hear, that it still is used in a few remote places. The reaping machine has driven the slow sickle into a few odd corners of the land, where the ground is rough and the crops are small, though sometimes it has momentarily reappeared elsewhere when the corn has been badly laid. The mowing machine also has to a great extent, though less universally, taken the place of the scythe. And with these changes has come a change over the sounds of the countryside. For the occasional whetting of the scythe we have the continuous rattle of the machine; and the puffing and peculiar humming of the steam-thresher, heard from afar, has taken the place of the muffled thumping of the flail on the soft straw, only to be heard a short way off.
The fact cannot be blinked that husbandry has lost not a little of its past-time picturesque and poetic aspect. Perhaps no one realises this more than the artist; for though it may be done, and has been done, yet for all it is not easy to put romance into commonplace machinery—that means poetry without the gathered glamour of the associations of long years. Machinery has at last but too successfully invaded the farm, and the agriculturist is being slowly converted into a sort of produce manufacturer. Now it is difficult to grow sentimental over machinery! The time may even come when the readers of Crabbe, Gray, Thomson, and other poets of the countryside will need the aid of a commentator to understand their terms aright. Only the other day a literary man asked me to describe a flail, as he was not quite sure what it was! Possibly some of us hardly realise how rapidly “the old order gives place to the new,” till unexpectedly the fact is brought to mind by some such question. I am thankful to say that I have heard nothing of the “Silo” of late, so that I trust that ensilage, that was to do such great things for the English farmers, is a
THE POETRY OF TOIL
failure, and never likely to usurp the place of the pleasant hay-field and fragrant haystacks. We simply cannot afford to improve the merry haymaking away—it is the very poetry of toil.
Driving on, we presently passed the fortieth milestone from London, just beyond which a post by the roadside informed us that we had entered Bedfordshire. Crossing this imaginary line brought back to mind a story we had been told concerning it by an antiquarian friend, as follows:—Just upon the boundaries of Bedfordshire and Hertfordshire formerly stood a rambling old farm-house; the living-room of this was long and low, and on the centre beam that went across the ceiling (such as may still be found in ancient buildings) was inscribed this legend: “If you are cold, go to Hertfordshire”—which apparently inhospitable invitation was explained by the fact of the peculiar situation of the room, one-half being in the one county and one-half in the other, and it chanced that the fireplace was at the Hertfordshire end!
Soon after the change of counties, at the foot of a long gradual descent, we found ourselves in the hamlet of Astwick, where by the wayside we espied a primitive but picturesque little inn boasting the title of “The Greyhound,” with a pump and horse-trough at one side, as frequently represented in old pictures and prints of ancient hostelries—a trough of the kind in which Mr. Weller the elder so ignominiously doused the head of the unfortunate Mr. Stiggins. Besides the trough there was a tiny garden of colourful flowers in front of the inn by way of refinement, and above the weather-tinted roof uprose a fine stack of clustering chimneys. The chance light and shade effect of the moment suited well the unpretending but pleasant bit of old-time architecture, so we proceeded to photograph it, not, however, before the landlord had divined our intention, and had placed himself in a prominent position, so that he might be included in the picture. A worthy man the landlord proved to be, as we found out in after conversation with him, and we promised to send him a copy of the photograph; but “the best-laid schemes o’ mice an’” amateur photographers “gang aft agley,” for it happened we had forgotten to change the plate, and so took the old inn right on the top of a previous photograph of another inn, and the photographic mixture was not favourable to clearness or an artistic result! The negative when developed showed two signboards on separate posts in different positions and at different angles, two roofs, one just over the other, a hopeless jumble of windows, and two stacks of chimneys occupying, the same place at the same time, in spite of the well-known axiom that no two things can do so. The Astwick landlord truly was there, but converted into a veritable ghost, for through his body you could plainly trace the doorway of the first inn! Certainly the result amused sundry of our friends, but then the photograph—photographs, I mean,—were not taken for that purpose, and friends are so easily amused at one’s failings! This reminds me that a famous artist once told me, speaking of experiments in painting, that he preferred a magnificent failure to a poor success; but our failure was not magnificent.
“HEART OF OAK”
Having, as we fondly imagined, secured a fine photograph, we entered into a conversation with the landlord, which resulted, as we hoped, in his inviting us to “take a glance” inside, where he pointed out the floors to us, which he said were all of “heart of oak,” and further remarked, “You don’t find that in modern buildings of this sort”—a statement in which we heartily concurred. He also showed us the staircase, likewise of oak. He had not been in the house long, we learnt, and when he bought the place “it was all going to ruin”; but he put it in good order. “Lots of people come to sketch and photograph the old inn, and some of the people who come patronise us for refreshment.” So it would seem that, after all, the picturesque has a commercial value—a fact we were delighted to note. Who would go even a mile to sketch a modern-built public-house? for the primitive inn was really that, though its picturesque and thought-out design suggested a more dignified purpose.
CHAPTER IV
Biggleswade—“Instituted” or “intruded”!—A poetical will—The river Ivel—A day to be remembered—The art of seeing—Misquotations—The striving after beauty—Stories in stone—An ancient muniment chest—An angler’s haunt—The town bridge—The pronunciation of names—St. Neots.
Some three miles or so beyond Astwick we reached high ground, from which we had extensive views to the right over miles of fields and undulating greenery. Shortly after this we dropped down into the drowsy old town of Biggleswade; at least it struck us as being a very drowsy sort of place when we were there, but doubtless it wakes up to a little life and movement once a week, on market-days. Even the Biggleswade dogs looked sleepily inclined, curled up under the shelter of various doorways, hardly indeed condescending to give us a glance as we passed by; whilst the nature of dogs generally is to make the arrival of a stranger in their parts an excuse to rush out and bark at him, good-naturedly or the reverse as the mood moves them. A dog seems to reason with himself, “Barking is the chief pleasure of life; here comes a stranger, let’s have a bark!”
Here we drove into the ancient and rambling stable-yard of an old inn near the market-place, and
A SUGGESTIVE WORD
handed our horses over to the good keeping of the ostler; and whilst our lunch was being prepared we wandered out to have a look round the town, but found nothing to specially interest us, so all else failing, we sought the church. Even here we did not discover much to reward us, though the open and carved timber roof of the south aisle was good, with its ornamental bosses and corbels formed of sculptured figures of angels, the whole being more or less decayed and the worse for age. On the woodwork are some slight remains of decorative painting.
Placed against the wall of the church we observed a board with the following heading—“The Vicars of Biggleswade,” followed by a list of names of the said vicars, “from 1276 to the present time, with the dates of their Institution.” Glancing down the long list of names, after each we noticed the word “instituted,” followed by the date thereof; but when we came to that of William Raulius, we noted instead of the usual “instituted,” the suggestive word and date “intruded 1658” was inserted!
Of this church my Paterson’s Roads, that does duty as a sufficient guide-book for us, remarks: “This substantial ancient edifice was built in the year 1230; it was formerly collegiate, and still contains several of the stalls. The parishioners have all an equal right to any of the seats, for which privilege, however, they are constrained to repair or rebuild the fabric when requisite.” Under the heading of “Biggleswade,” the same excellent road-companion also remarks of Sutton Park, near by, on the road to Potton, “It is traditionally stated that this seat formerly belonged to John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, who gave it to Roger Burgoyne, ancestor of the present proprietor, by the following laconic grant:—
I, John of Gaunt,
Do give and do grant,
Unto Roger Burgoyne,
And the heirs of his loin,
Both Sutton and Potton,
Until the world’s rotten.
There is also a moated site in the park, still known by the name of John of Gaunt’s Castle.”
Leaving Biggleswade, we crossed the river Ivel, but until the crossing thereof we had no idea that there was a river of such a name in England,—a driving tour is certainly helpful to a better and more minute knowledge of the geography of one’s own land. Then we entered upon a far-reaching level stretch of country, with a great expanse of sunny sky above, and the silvery sheen of stilly waters showing below in slothful river and clear but stagnant dyke. We could trace our road for miles ahead in curving lines lessening to the low horizon, inclining first this way and then that, now disappearing, to reappear again along way off. The eye—the artistic eye at any rate—rejoices in such a succession of sinuous curves, as much as it abhors the dictatorial and monotonous straight line; it likes to be led by gentle and slow degrees into the heart of the landscape, and away beyond into the infinity of space where the vague distance vanishes into the sky. Possibly the muscles of the eye more readily
A PLEASANT LAND
adapt themselves to such easy and gradual transition from spot to spot than to the harsher insistence of a straight line. Nature herself hardly ever indulges in the latter; man may make it, but she, in time, on every opportunity, mars it gloriously.
On either hand, as we drove on, stretched a level land of tilled fields and verdant meadows, the many colours of the crops and the varied greens of the pastures forming a gigantic mosaic. To the right of us rose some rounded fir-crowned hills, if hills be the right term, for only perhaps in a flat country would such modest elevations be dignified with the title of hills. These, to employ a familiar painter’s expression, “told” deeply blue—with all the beauty of ultramarine and all the depth of indigo.
It was an open breezy prospect, delightful to gaze upon, though there was nothing exciting or grand about it save the great distances and the wide over-arching sky; but it had the charm of wonderful colouring, and was full of lightness and brightness that was most inspiriting; full of cheery movement too, where the wild wind made rhythmic waves of the long grasses and unreaped fields of corn, and rustled the leaves and bent the topmost branches of the saplings before its gentle blasts, or where it rippled the gliding waters of the winding river and silvery streams, causing them to glance and sparkle in the flooding sunshine. All Nature seemed buoyant with an exuberant vitality upon that almost perfect afternoon, and the gladness of the hour entered into our very souls and made us exultant accordingly! It was a day to call fondly back to mind when pent up in London during the darksome and dreary November days, half asphyxiated with the smoke and sulphur laden atmosphere; then the very remembrance of such a time of golden sunshine and fresh and fragrant breezes is of untold refreshment.
Some people might have deemed that prospect, composed chiefly of flat fields, sluggish waters, and scattered trees, uninteresting and unbeautiful, with nothing to commend it, still less to rave about; but there is such a thing as the art of seeing, which art reveals, to those who cultivate it, beauty in the most unexpected places. The charm of form and colour is often a noteworthy factor that makes for beauty in a prospect that is devoid of the picturesque and the “sweetly pretty.” The best training in the art of seeing and discovering beauty that I know is to make a series of sketches from Nature, in colour—water-colour for preference, as being clearer of tint and easier applied. Take, for instance, a bit of an old stone wall, or, better still, a weather-stained boulder on some moor, outline it as well as you can—never mind the drawing at first, it is the colour you must look for—copy these tint for tint, hue for hue, as faithfully as you can. Before starting you may imagine that the rugged boulder is simply gray all over, lighter on the side where the sun shines, and darker in the shadows, and that is all; but as you try to represent its surface you will soon discover, if you only look hard and carefully enough, that what you at first deemed to be merely a mass of gray is composed of a myriad changeful colours:
A NEW SENSE
there are sure to be the silver, and the gold, and perchance the red, of clinging lichen (glorious colours these); then there are the greens of mosses, and countless weather-stains here and there, all to be given; then the rock itself, you will perceive as the eye gets more accustomed to its novel task, is composed of countless tints, changing with almost every change of surface, and where the boulder lies half in shadow you will perceive a sort of blue-gray bloom—look very hard for this; then the blackest shadows, you will note, are rich and deep, and look quite colourful beside any single tint you may mix in the hope of representing them. The more you study that boulder, the more colour you will see in it; and if all this unexpected colour exists in one simple rock, to leave the charms of varying form unconsidered, what must there not exist on the whole wide moor? Look for yourself and see. After your eye has had its first lesson in the art of seeing and searching out the beautiful, it will naturally, unconsciously almost, begin to look for it everywhere—and expect it! I fear I have perhaps written this in too didactical a manner, but I find it difficult to express myself clearly otherwise, and must plead this as my excuse for a failing I find it so hard to endure in others.
It was sketching from Nature that first taught me to look for and find beauties in my everyday surroundings that before I had never even imagined to exist. This art of seeing came to me like a new sense—it was a revelation, and it has ever since afforded me so much positive and lasting pleasure, that I can truly say it has materially increased the happiness of my life. Surely if “a man who can make two blades of grass grow where one grew before is a benefactor to his race,” to add, however slightly, to the happiness of life is to be a benefactor too, humble though the addition may be.
Now, after this over-long digression, let us once more resume the even tenor of our tour. I had nearly written the even tenor of our way, and placed the words between inverted commas, so familiar does the saying sound; but I find on reference that Gray really wrote “the noiseless tenor of their way,” which is not exactly the same thing, and it is as well to be correct in small details as in great. It is astonishing to me how often familiar quotations go wrong in the quoting; indeed, it is rather the exception to find them rightly given. I have only just to-day come across two instances of this whilst glancing over a magazine article. First I note that Milton’s “fresh woods and pastures new” is rendered, as it mostly is, “fresh fields and pastures new”; then Nathaniel Lee’s “when Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war” is misquoted, as usual, “when Greek meets Greek,” etc., quite losing the point that when the ancient—not the modern!—Greeks were joined together they were a doughty foe. But now I am wandering again right off the road!
Driving on, we presently crossed the little river Ivel by a gray stone bridge, beneath which the stream ran clear and brightly blue. Across the bridge we found ourselves in the straggling village
A SUDDEN CONTRAST
of Girtford. This began well with pretty cottages roofed with homely thatch; then passing a wayside public-house with the uncommon title of “The Easy Chair” (a sign that we do not remember to have met with before), the village ended badly, in a picturesque point of view, with a row of uninteresting cottages of the modern, square-box type, shelters for man rather than habitations—commonplace, alas! and unsightly. The sudden contrast from the old to the new was an object-lesson in ancient beauty and modern ugliness.
The progressive nineteenth century, by the mean and hideous structures it has erected over all the pleasant land, has done much towards the spoliation of English scenery. It has done great things, truly. It has created railways, it has raised palaces, mansions, huge hotels, monster warehouses, tall towers, and gigantic wheels of iron; but it has forgotten the way of rearing so simple and pleasing a thing as a home-like farmstead; it cannot even build a cottage grandly. Yet how well our ancestors knew how to do these. Still, the wanderer across country now and then sees signs of better things, a promise of a return to more picturesque conditions, and this sometimes in the most out-of-the-way and unexpected quarters. Thus, during our drive, have we chanced upon a quaint and freshly-painted inn sign done in a rough but true artistic spirit, supported by wrought-iron work of recent date, worthy of the medieval craftsman; and in quiet market-towns and remote villages have our eyes occasionally been delighted by bits of thoughtful architecture, the outcome of to-day, with their gable fronts, mullioned windows, and pleasant porches, in reverent imitation of what is best in the old. Besides these, sundry restorations of ancient buildings backwards, not forwards, point to a striving again for beauty.
An excellent and most delightful example of the revival of picturesque village architecture we discovered the other year when driving through Leigh, near Tunbridge, where the modern cottages are all pictures, charming to look upon with their half-timber framework, thatched roofs of the true Devon type, many gables, big chimneys, and quaint porches—all modern, but imbued with the spirit and poetry of the past. It is as though a medieval architect had been at work on them. The simple cottages are nobly designed; there is no starving of material in the attempt to make the utmost of everything; they are all humble abodes, yet dignified; a millionaire might live in one and not be ashamed; and withal they are essentially English. If they have a failing, it is perhaps that they look a trifle artificial—too suggestive of the model village or of stage scenery; but this I take it arises mainly because we are not accustomed in these commonplace days to find poetry out of books and paintings, so that the coming suddenly upon it realised in bricks and mortar strikes one for the moment as strange and unreal.
After another stretch of wide, open country, flushed with air and suffused with sunshine, the hamlet of Tempsford was reached. By the roadside
A WAYSIDE INN.
AN ANCIENT CHEST
here stood the ancient fane, gray and dusky with years. Its door was unfastened, so we stepped inside. Our hoary churches are stories in stone, to those who can read them; though not always is the reading easy, or the story complete. The first thing on entering that attracted our attention was an unusually fine medieval muniment chest, its age uncertain, but without doubt centuries old. It had evidently been cut out of the solid trunk of a tree (presumably of an oak). The chest is now much worm-eaten, and is bound round with many broad iron bands, and further secured by five locks. They had great faith in big locks in those days—locks with twisted keyholes, though to the modern mind they look easy enough to pick. The problem that presented itself to us was, seeing that about two-thirds of the wood was interlaced with these metal bands, why was not the chest at the start made wholly of iron? In this case the bands promise to outlast the worm-eaten and decaying wood they enclose, though in some old chests of a similar nature the iron has rusted more than the wood has perished, possibly owing to atmospheric conditions, for dampness would probably destroy the iron quicker than the wood, and dryness would reverse these conditions.
At the west end of the north aisle we observed a curious triangular window, and in the pavement at the base of the tower we found two flat tombstones a little apart. One is inscribed in Latin to the memory of “Knightley Chetwode,” and the other in English to his wife, who, we learnt, was noted for her “piety towards God, fidelity to the King and the Protestant succession”; though why the virtues of the husband should be set forth in Latin and those of his wife in English I do not quite see.
On the wall of the tower we also noted the following inscription cut in a stone slab, the exact import of which was not very clear to us; possibly it related to some rebuilding:—
Wil̄l̄ Savnderson Gē
and Thōm̄ Staplo Yēō
Overseers of this New
Work & patentyes of his
Maiesties Letters
Patent Granted for
the same May xii—1621.
The lettering of this was delightfully full of character, and pleasing to look upon simply for the forms of the letters—a something quite apart from the mechanical precision with which the present-day engravers render their works, possibly because they cannot do otherwise; it does not require much thought to be simply precise!
Just beyond Tempsford our road came close to the side of the quiet-flowing Ouse, and there, where for a space the road and river ran together, stood an inviting and picturesque inn, whose sign was that of “The Anchor.” An ideal angler’s haunt it seemed to us as we passed by, with an old punt and boats close inshore, and shady trees overhanging the gleaming stream. There was a look of homely repose about the spot quite incommunicable in words, a beauty about the fresh greens and silvery grays of the wind-stirred foliage to be felt, not described.
THE WINDING OUSE
And how deep and rich were the luscious reflections where the woods doubled themselves in the glassy flood! How peace-bestowing it all was! We would, for the moment, that we were simple fishermen, and that this were our journey’s end! Great was the temptation to stop and laze a while, but we resisted it and drove on. We feared, perhaps, though we did not confess this to ourselves, that too close an inspection might rob us of our pleasant impressions. We had an ideal, and wished to keep it! There is an art in knowing how much to leave unseen!
On now we drove, through a land of broad and luxuriant meadows, cool and tree-shaded, till we reached Eaton Socon, a pretty village with a small green and a fine large church. Within the sacred edifice we discovered little of interest, only portions of a rather good timber roof, a carved oak screen of fair workmanship, and the remains of a squint blocked up. If there were anything else noteworthy we managed very successfully to miss it.
Then a short stretch of road brought us once more to the blue winding Ouse; at least it looked very blue that day. This we crossed on an ancient, time-worn bridge, that had great recessed angles at the sides wherein pedestrians might retreat and watch the long track of the glimmering river, and dream day-dreams, should they be so minded, safely out of the way of road traffic, and undisturbed by the passing and repassing of those afoot. On the other side of the river we found ourselves at once in the wide market-place of St. Neots. At the bridge the country ended and the town began; there were no straggling suburbs to traverse. Close at hand, right in the market-place, we caught sight of an inviting hostelry, the “Cross Keys” to wit. The first glance at the old inn was enough to decide us in its favour. Relying on the instinct begotten of long years of road travel, we had no hesitation in directly driving under the archway thereof, where we alighted in the courtyard, and sought and obtained, just what we then mostly needed, comfortable quarters for the night. In the case of the selection of an hostelry, we had learnt to judge by outside appearances, in spite of the proverb to the contrary effect. Even in proverbs there are exceptions to the rule!
I should imagine, from the glance we had on passing over, that the bridge at St. Neots forms a sort of outdoor club for a number of the townsfolk. There is something magnetic about a river that equally attracts both the young and the old; it is bright and open, it has the charm of movement, and there is nearly always life of some kind to be found by the waterside. Thither, too, at times the fisherman, or at any rate the fisher-urchin, comes; and what a fascination there is for most minds in watching an angler pursuing his sport, even though in vain! I have frequently observed that in country towns where there is a widish river and a convenient bridge over it, there on that bridge do certain of the citizens regularly congregate at evening-time, when the day’s work is done, for a chat, a quiet smoke, and “a breath of air before turning in.” The town
THE CHARM OF MYSTERY
bridge has become quite an institution in some places!
As we went out to do a little shopping, we were amused and instructed to hear the different ways that the natives pronounced the name of their town. One would have imagined that there was only one way of doing this, but we discovered three: the first party we conversed with distinctly called it St. Notes, a second as emphatically declared it to be St. Nots, and still another would have it St. Neets, whilst we as strangers had innocently pronounced it as spelt; and now I do not feel at all certain as to which is the prevailing local appellation, or if there may still be another variety.
Our bedroom window faced the old market-square—a large, open, and picturesque space, pleasant to look upon; and at the window we sat for a time watching the life of the place and the odd characters coming and going. It was all as entertaining to us as a scene in a play, and a good deal more so than some, for there was no indifferent acting in our players, and no false drawing in the background—the perspective was perfect! And, as we watched, the light in the west gradually faded away, whilst the moon rose slowly and shone down, large and solemn, through the haze that gathered around when the dusk descended. The gentle radiance of the moonlight made the mist luminous with a mellow light—a light that lent the magic charm of mystery to the prospect. The houses, grouped irregularly round the square, were indistinctly revealed, all their harsher features being softened down; then one after another lights gleamed forth from their many-paned windows, with a warm yellow cheerfulness in marked contrast with the cold silvery moonshine without. The mist-damped roadway was reflective, and repeated vaguely the yellow gleams above, and imparted to the scene quite a Turneresque effect. Above the low-roofed houses, dimly discernible, rose the tall tower of the stately parish church, so grand a church that it has earned the epithet of “the cathedral of Huntingdon.” It was a poetic vision, very beautiful and bewitching to look upon, we thought; but, after all, much of the beauty in a prospect lies in the imaginative qualities of the beholder: we may all see the same things, yet we do not see them in the same manner!
CHAPTER V
The charm of small towns—The Ouse—A pleasant land—Buckden Palace—A joke in stone—The birthplace of Samuel Pepys—Buried treasure—Huntingdon—An old-time interior—A famous coaching inn—St. Ives—A church steeple blown down!—A quaint and ancient bridge—A riverside ramble—Cowper’s country—Two narrow escapes.
One of the special charms of small towns like St. Neots is that you can readily walk out of them in any direction right into the country; and what a boon it must be to the inhabitants of such places to have the real country all around them, easily accessible even to children, and this without having to take to cab or railway! So next morning, after starting early, as was our wont, we soon found ourselves amongst the green fields and trees again. It was a bright sunshiny day, with a fleecy sky above and a brisk breeze below—the very weather for driving.
Just outside St. Neots we came to a gateway on the road with the gate closed and barring our path; there was, however, a man at hand to open it, and a very prominent notice-board facing us inscribed—“The man who attends to the common-gate is not paid any wage, and is dependent upon the free gifts of the public.” This notice struck us as being somewhat novel, practically converting the gate into a toll-gate, for the moral obligation to tip was thereby made manifest—and why should gates be allowed on the main highways?
After this we crossed a long open common, at the farther end of which we passed through still another gate, that also needed another tip for the opening thereof; then we came to our old friend the Ouse again, which we crossed on a bridge by the side of a mill; just before reaching this we noticed that there was a raised causeway approach to the bridge for pedestrians above and alongside of the road, suggestive of winter flooding. The causeway also suggested an excellent motive for a picture with suitable figures on it, to be entitled “When the river is in flood.” It would form quite a Leaderesque subject, taken at a time when the day is waning, and wan yellow lights are in the sky, and a yellow sheen lies on the stream.
The Ouse here is very pretty, clear-watered, and gentle-gliding, fringed with reedy banks and overhung by leafy trees, the whole being rich in colour and broad in effect. Indeed, the Ouse is a very pleasant, lazy stream, and a most sketchable one too. The discovery of the picturesqueness of this river—of which more anon—was one of the unexpected good things of our journey.
Now our road led us, with many windings, through a pleasant land of parks and park-like meadows, wherein grew great branching elms, beneath whose grateful shelter the meek-eyed cattle gathered complacently. It was an essentially peaceful,
A PICTURESQUE PILE
homelike country, green and slumberous, but wanting wide views; a closed-in landscape, however beautiful of itself, becomes a trifle monotonous in time—you can even have a monotony of beauty—the eye loves to rake the countryside, to get a peep, now and then, of the blue far-away, or of the gray outline of a distant hill.
The first village on our way was Buckden, and here, being unprovided with a guide-book, we had a delightful surprise, for as we entered the place we caught a glimpse of the broken and time-worn towers of a large, rambling, and picturesque pile of buildings, some portions ruined, others apparently maintained and occupied. The structure was principally of brick, but time-toned into a warmish gray with age. What could it be? Manifestly, from its extent, it was a place of considerable importance. Such surprises are happily to be expected in such a storied land as England, wherein you cannot travel far without setting your eyes upon some ancient history. In spite of the size and beauty of the many-towered building, when we asked ourselves what it could be, we had sadly to acknowledge that even the name of Buckden was unfamiliar to us! So we consulted our ancient and faithful Paterson to see what he might say, and running our finger down the line of road, as given in the “London to Carlisle” route, we read after the name of the village, “Bishop of Lincoln’s Palace.” A note by the side, giving some details thereof, says: “This venerable pile is chiefly constructed of brick, and partly surrounded by a moat; it comprises two quadrangular courts, with a square tower and entrance gateway, and contains several spacious apartments. Large sums of money have been expended by different prelates on this fabric, particularly by Bishops Williams and Sanderson, the former in the reign of James I. and the latter in that of Charles II. The situation of the edifice is extremely pleasant. The manor was granted to the see of Lincoln in the time of Henry I.... Several of the prelates belonging to this see have been interred in the parish church.”
We gathered from this that probably the church would be fine and interesting, so we alighted and made our way thither. Facing the quiet God’s acre—I would like to write God’s garden, but it was hardly that—stood one of the square, semi-fortified gateways of the palace, embattled on the top, and having four octagonal flanking towers at its sides; in the enclosed walls below were mullioned windows, the stonework of which was perfect, but the glass was gone; at the foot of the gateway commanding the approach were cross arrow-slits, presumably placed there for ornament—a survival of past forms that, even when the tower was raised, had long outlived their uses, so strong is the strength of tradition. Thus to-day I know instances where the modern architect of renown has introduced buttresses when the wall is strong enough without; peaceful church towers are likewise embattled like a feudal castle keep, and gargoyles introduced thereon, where, did the latter only carry out their offices, they would pour the rain-water down in streams upon the heads of the
GARGOYLES
congregation when entering or leaving the building! So, their true functions gone, are obsolete forms retained for the sake of their picturesqueness, which seems wrong art to me; rather should we attempt to build for the needs of the present, and make those needs ornamental—to construct soundly, and be content to adorn such construction. The architects of old, I trow, did not introduce gargoyles for the sake of ornament; they made them to throw the rain from off their roofs and walls, purely for utility; then they proceeded to carve and make them presentable, and converted an ugly excrescence into a thing of beauty or quaintness, as the spirit moved them, but either way they were interesting. Now that we have invented rain-water pipes—which, let it be frankly owned, answer the purpose far better than the old-fashioned gargoyles—we should seek, in the spirit of the past, to make beautiful or quaint the headings of the same. Here is a sadly neglected and legitimate opportunity to introduce the much-needed decoration that does decorate, and thus add an interest to our houses they so much need. Instead of this, we are too often content with “stuck on” ornaments, which do not ornament, serve no need, and merely profit the builder’s pocket.
But to return to the old Buckden Palace gateway. Though externally the brick and stone work is in fair condition, the structure is but a skeleton; however, this fact adds to its picturesqueness, and with the better-preserved towers beyond, it helps to form a very pleasing group. When we were there the ruined tower was in the possession of a flock of noisy starlings—birds that strangely appear to prefer buildings to trees, and who made themselves much at home in the ruins.
Then we took a glance within the church, where several Bishops of Lincoln lie buried close to their palatial home. Fortunate beings those ancient bishops—to make the best of both worlds, and to ensure so many earthly good things on their way to heaven; to be the servant of Him who had not where to lay His head, and yet to sit on a throne, live in a palace, and enjoy a princely income; nevertheless, to talk of losing all for Christ, who said, “My kingdom is not of this world”! Strangely inconsistent is the creed of Christianity with the history of the Church. “Love your enemies” was the command of the Master. “Torture and burn them” was the order of the medieval Church—and is the servant greater than the Master?
Buckden church, though interesting, was hardly so much so as might have been expected; its open timber roof, however, was very fine, and was adorned with a series of sculptured angels that manifestly had once been coloured, but now had a faded look, and faded angels seem hardly appropriate; moreover, not one of the number had his (or her?) wings perfect; some had only one wing, and that broken, others were in a still worse plight, having no wings at all! But why should angels have wings? Is it that neither scholar nor artist can get beyond anthropomorphism? Wings are hardly spiritual appendages. The medieval craftsman, in representing angels so provided, must surely
A CARVED JOKE
have reasoned with himself somewhat in this fashion: Angels fly; now all birds and creatures that fly have wings, therefore angels must have wings; and so he added them to the human form, to represent a spirit. The medieval craftsman could invent demons—veritable monsters who breathed and struggled in wood and stone, and looked good-naturedly diabolical with leering, wicked eyes, yet hardly dreadful—monsters that appeared quite possible in some other and most undesirable world—these were pure creations, but his angels were simply winged humanity, neither original nor interesting, for their even placid features, if without guile, were equally without character.
The roof was supported by stone corbels, that in turn supported carved oak figures of mitred bishops, from which sprang the great rafters with the angels on. One of these corbels was most cleverly carved so as to represent a roundish head with a hand held over one eye in a very roguish way, and tears running down the cheek from the other; the expression of the features, one half merry and the other grieved, was marvellous, especially the mouth, part jocund and part miserable; it was an odd conceit that compelled one to laugh, the comicality was irresistible. Were I to worship in that church, I am afraid that the most serious sermon would hardly affect me with that droll face peering grinningly down—one half at least—and looking so knowing! A carved joke! That is art in truth that converts the amorphous stone into a thing of life, with the expressions of grief and joy. Compare such living work with the lumpy, inexpressive, and meaningless stone-carving that disfigures so many of our modern churches built “to the glory of God” cheaply and by contract, and how great and distressing the contrast!
As we drove out of Buckden, we noticed what a fine coaching inn it boasted once, namely the “George and Dragon.” The original extent of the whole building, in spite of alterations, can still be easily traced; its former size and importance may be gathered from the fact that there are thirteen windows in one long line on its front, besides the great archway in the centre, that is such a prominent feature in most old-fashioned hostelries.
A couple of miles or so beyond Buckden stands the pretty village of Brampton, and here we made a short halt, as, besides its picturesqueness, Brampton had a further interest for us in being the birthplace of that celebrated Diarist and old-time road-traveller the worthy Mr. Samuel Pepys, who was born here on 23rd February 1632, though the event is not to be found in the parish register, for the excellent reason that “these records do not commence until the year 1654.” I find in the preface to the new edition of Lord Braybrooke’s Diary of Samuel Pepys, edited by H. B. Wheatley, it is stated: “Samuel Knight, D.D., author of the Life of Colet, who was a connection of the family (having married Hannah Pepys, daughter of Talbot Pepys of Impington), says positively that it was at Brampton” Pepys was born. The father and mother of the ever-entertaining Diarist lived and died at Brampton, and were buried there.
A PRIMITIVE PROCEEDING
The number of birthplaces of famous Englishmen that we came accidentally upon during the course of our journey was a notable feature thereof. Besides the instance just mentioned, there was Cromwell’s at Huntingdon, Jean Ingelow’s at Boston, Sir John Franklin’s at Spilsby, Lord Tennyson’s at Somersby, Sir Isaac Newton’s at Woolsthorpe, with others of lesser note, the last four being all in Lincolnshire.
But to return to Brampton. Pepys makes frequent mention of this place in his notes, and gives some very amusing and interesting experiences of one of his visits there under the date of the 10th and 11th of October 1667, when he came to search for and to recover his buried treasure. It appears, after the Dutch victory in the Thames, and the rumours that they intended to make a descent upon London, Pepys, with many others, became alarmed about the safety of his property, so he sent a quantity of gold coins in bags down to his father’s home at Brampton, with instructions that they should be secretly buried in the garden for security! A primitive proceeding truly, giving a curious insight of the state of the times: one would have imagined that the money would really have been safer hidden in London than risked on the road, where robberies were not infrequent.
When all fear of the Dutch invasion had vanished, Pepys journeyed down to Brampton to get back his own, which caused him to moralise upon the obvious thus—“How painful it is sometimes to keep money, as well as to get it.” Having recovered his money, or nearly all of it, he relates how about ten o’clock he took coach back to London. “My gold I put into a basket, and set under one of the seats; and so my work every quarter of an hour was to look to see whether all was well; and I did ride in great fear all day.” And small wonder, for if any of the “gentlemen of the road” had “got wind” of Mr. Pepys’s exploit, it is more than probable that they would have eased him of his treasure; even without such knowledge, there was just a possibility of a misadventure at their hands. The only pleasant part of that memorable journey must have been the ending thereof. I wonder whether Mr. Pepys ever heard of the tradition, which has found its way as historic fact into some of our school-books, that “in Saxon times the highways were so secure that a man might walk safely the whole length and breadth of the land, with a bag of gold in his hand.” The “in Saxon times,” however, calls to my mind the inevitable beginning of the good old-fashioned fairy stories, “Once upon a time.” Both terms are rather suggestive of romancing; at least they put back dates to a safely distant period!
On the church tower at Brampton, which stands close to the roadside, is the date 1635 plainly carved in stone, and to-day as sharp and clear as when first chiselled over two eventful centuries ago. From Brampton we drove to Huntingdon. About midway between those places we passed, on a triangular bit of green, a gray stone obelisk surmounted by a ball. At first we imagined that we had come across
COACHING INNS
another wayside monument, but it disappointed us, proving to be merely a glorified sign-post with hands pointing out the various directions, and the various distances given below. Then leaving, to our left, the historic home of Hinchinbrook, where the Protector spent some of his boyish days with his uncle and godfather Sir Oliver Cromwell, we soon entered the pleasant town of Huntingdon. Here we sought out the “George,” one of the famous trio of coaching houses on the road that, with its namesake at Stamford and the “Angel” at Grantham, disputed the premier place for comfort, good living, and high charges. At either of these well-patronised hostelries our forefathers were sure of excellent fare and rare old port such as they delighted in: it was the boast of some of the hosts, in the prime of the coaching age, that they could set down before their guests better wine than could be found on His Majesty’s table. If this were a fiction, it were a pleasant fiction; and tired travellers, as they sipped their old bottled port, after feasting well, doubtless deemed their landlord’s boast no idle one.
Unfortunately the “George” at Huntingdon, unlike its two rivals aforementioned, has externally been rebuilt, not, alas! on the picturesque old lines, but in the square, commonplace fashion of plain walls pierced with oblong holes for windows—a fashion so familiar to us all. But upon driving beneath the archway and entering the courtyard, a pleasant surprise awaited us. We found a picture in building presented to our admiring gaze. It was one of those delightful experiences that are so delightful because so unexpected: there is a wonderfully added charm about pleasures that are unanticipated. This is why it is so enjoyable to travel through a fresh country with all before you unknown and therefore pregnant with possibilities; the mind is thus kept ever in an agreeable state of expectancy, wondering what each new bend in the road may reveal; and what a special interest there lies in the little discoveries that one makes for oneself! Could a guide-book be produced giving particulars of all one would see on a tour, so that one would always know exactly what to expect everywhere, I make bold to say that a tour undertaken with such a perfect companion would not be worth the taking!
But to get back to the “George” at Huntingdon. There, straight in front of us, stood a goodly portion of the ancient inn, unlike the exterior, happily unmodernised—a fact for all lovers of the beautiful to be deeply grateful for. This bit of building retained its ancient gallery, reached by an outside stairway (so familiar in old prints and drawings of such inns), and in the great tiled roof above, set all by itself in a projecting gable, was the hotel clock, that doubtless erst did duty to show the time to a generation of road-travellers in the days before the despotic reign of the steam-horse, when corn and hay, not coal and coke, sustained the motive power.
This unchanged corner of a famous old coaching hostelry spoke plainly of the picturesque past. It was not a painter’s dream, it was a reality! It suggested bits from Pickwick, and sundry scenes from novels of the out-of-date romantic school.
AN OLD COACHING INN: COURTYARD OF THE GEORGE, HUNTINGDON.
AN INN TO OUR LIKING
Indeed, it must formerly have been quite a Pickwickian inn, and in our mind’s eye we conjured up a picture in which the immortal Sam Weller was the chief character, standing in the courtyard below flirting with the neat be-ribboned maids above as they leaned over the open gallery, when for a moment business was slack in the yard, and the chamber bells had a brief respite from ringing. The building and courtyard had a genuine old-world flavour about them that was very charming, and to add to its interest and attractiveness the building was not decayed or ruined, as so many of the kind are, but was well preserved and maintained, so that it must have looked to us much the same as it did in the days of our ancestors—peace be to their ashes!
At the “George” we were received by a motherly landlady with a welcoming smile, that made us feel more like an expected guest arriving than an utter stranger seeking food and shelter for a time; this ready greeting in the good old-fashioned style promptly recalled to memory Shenstone’s famous and often-quoted lines as to the warmness of the welcome a traveller may find at an inn.
So much to our liking were both landlady and hostelry, that we forthwith determined to stop the night beneath the sign of the “George” at Huntingdon, though it was only then mid-day. “I really must make a sketch of your pretty courtyard!” I exclaimed to the landlady, after returning her greeting with thanks, for we were always most particular to repay courtesy with courtesy. “Oh! do wait till to-morrow,” she begged, “as you are staying on, for I have ordered some flowers and plants to put round about the yard. They will be here this afternoon, and the place will look so much nicer with them.” So smilingly we consented to wait till to-morrow, when the flowers and shrubs would be in evidence. It was something to feel that so charming a relic of the past was thus prized and cared for. Picturesqueness begets picturesqueness; as a pretty house calls for tasteful things about it, so a picturesque bit of old building like this mutely begs for flowers and plants to complete its pleasantness.
As we had the whole afternoon on our hands, we determined to do a little local exploring. The only point to be considered was, in which direction we should go. To settle this our map was consulted, and from it we learnt that the ancient town of St. Ives was only, by rough scale measurement, some four to five miles off; moreover, we noted that our newly-made friend the Ouse flowed between the two towns with many a bend that suggested pleasant wanderings; and as we were informed that there was a footpath by the riverside, the wanderings were feasible. So we made up our minds to get to St. Ives somehow, by railway if needs be and a train served, and at our leisure to follow the winding stream afoot back to Huntingdon. We felt a strong desire to become better acquainted with the Ouse, as the few peeps we had already caught of its quiet beauties much impressed us; still, we had a haunting dread of being disappointed with a wider view, so often have
A SLEEPY TOWN
hopes raised in a similar manner proved illusive. Then we remembered Wordsworth’s lines:
Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it!
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it!
Well, we had “a vision of our own” of what the Ouse would be like—“should we undo it?” We had asked ourselves almost a similar question before of one picturesque spot by the same river’s side near Tempsford, as may be remembered, but that was only of one special nook, not of a five miles’ stretch of country!
We found St. Ives to be a drowsy, old-fashioned town, delightfully unprogressive, and little given to so-called modern improvements—a place where the feverish rush of life seemed stayed. It struck us as being quaint rather than picturesque, though its curious old bridge, hoary with antiquity, certainly deserved both these epithets, and bits of its buildings, here and there, proved eminently sketchable. Whilst we were drawing an odd gable which took our fancy, an elderly stranger approached and began to converse with us—a frequent incident under such circumstances, so much so that we had become quite accustomed to it. The stranger in this case turned out trumps, in that he was somewhat of a character, possessing a fund of entertaining information about local subjects that interested us. He was a quiet-spoken and pleasant-mannered man, rather shabbily dressed, as though he paid little heed to the cut of his coat or external appearances, but his linen was scrupulously clean. We felt puzzled what position in the varied economy of life to assign to him, nor did any chance remarks of his help us in this respect. But, after all, who or what he might be was no business of ours. “Have you seen the old bridge yet?” was one of his first questions. Then he went on to say, “You must not miss that, it is the queerest bridge in England; it was constructed by the old monks originally; there’s a curious building right in the middle of it, on the site of an ancient chapel in which prayers used to be offered up for the safety of travellers starting on a journey, and thanks were given for their safe arrival. When the chapel and priests were done away with, a lighthouse was put up in its place to help the river traffic, so I’ve been told; then the lighthouse got burnt down; and afterwards, when the people found that they could get along without either chapel or lighthouse, the place was converted into a dwelling-house, and that’s what it is now. There’s not many folk, I fancy, in these times, who have their home in the middle of a bridge! It is a wonderful old building, you must not miss it on any account,” and we promised that we would not. “Then there’s our church,” he went on; “the spire of it has been blown down twice, though you might not think it on such a day as this; but it does blow terribly hard here at times: the wind comes up the river and sweeps down upon us in the winter, now and then, hard enough to take you off your legs. I’ve been blown down myself by it when crossing
A STRANGE STORY
the bridge. But I was going to tell you a strange bit of history connected with our church, which I believe is quite unique. Many years ago—I don’t just now remember the exact date, but it was over two hundred years back—a Dr. Wilde left a sum of money in his will, the interest on which was to go to buy Bibles to be tossed for by dice on the Communion table by six boys and six girls of the parish, and the tossing still takes place every year according to the will, only now it is done on a table in the vestry instead of on the Communion table. Now that’s a bit of curious history, is it not?” and we confessed that it was, and duly jotted it all down in our note-book just as told to us. When we had finished, our informant further added, “I have heard that an account of the dice-tossing was given in one of the London papers, only by some mistake it was said to have taken place at St. Ives in Cornwall, and some one from there wrote to the paper and said that there was not a word of truth in the story.” So the conversation went on. The only other item of special interest that I can remember now, is that he remarked that perhaps we did not know the origin of the name of Huntingdon. We confessed our ignorance on the subject, and he forthwith kindly enlightened us, though I cannot, of course, in any way vouch for the authenticity of a statement made by an utter stranger in the street of a country town! Still, I give it for what it may be worth, and because the derivation seems not only plausible but probable. According to our unknown authority, then, in Saxon times the country around Huntingdon was one vast forest given over to the chase, and the place was then called Hunting-ton—or Hunting-town, in modern English—and from this to Huntingdon is an easy transition.
Curiously enough, just after writing this record of a chance conversation, I came upon a paragraph in the Standard giving an account of the St. Ives dice-tossing, which runs as follows, and bears out the story as told to us:—“The ancient custom of raffling for Bibles in the parish church of St. Ives took place yesterday. The vicar directed the proceedings, and twelve children cast dice for the six Bibles awarded. The custom dates from 1675, and is in accordance with the will of Dr. Wilde, who left £50 to provide a fund for the purpose. It was expended on what is still called ‘Bible Orchard,’ with the rent of which the books are bought, and a small sum paid to the vicar for preaching a special sermon.”
The bridge at St. Ives we found to be a most interesting and picturesque structure, having a tall building over the centre pier, and in addition a low and smaller building over another pier at the farther end, that looked as though it might have been originally a toll-house. Four out of the six arches of the bridge were pointed, and thereby suggested the ecclesiastical architect. The remaining two were rounded, doubtless reconstructed so at a later period. At the base of the house that stood in the middle of the bridge was a little balcony with iron railings round it, to which access was given by a door, so that the tenant of the house could sit outside and have a quiet smoke whilst amusing himself watching the craft going up and down stream. The bridges at Bradford-on-Avon in Wiltshire and at Wakefield in Yorkshire have their old chapels, and one of the bridges at Monmouth has its ancient fortified gateway thereon; but I do not know of any bridge in England besides that of St. Ives that has an inhabited house upon it.
A HOUSE ON A BRIDGE.
Crossing the river on the quaint, old, and timeworn bridge (of which an engraving is given at the head of the first chapter), we soon found ourselves once again in the greenful country; and walking over a meadow that seemed to us a good mile long, we reached the pleasant Ouse, shimmering like a broad band of silver in the soft sunshine, and gliding slowly and smoothly along its sinuous course between flower-decked fields and reed-grown banks, with over-arching trees ever and again that gave deliciously cool reflections in the stream below.
After the hoary bridge and ancient time-dimmed town, how fresh and bright looked the fair open country, so full of exuberant vitality! How gray and aged the dusky town appeared from our distant standpoint—the wear and tear of centuries was upon it; by contrast how ever young and unchangeable the country seemed. The one so mutable, the other so immutable!
As we wandered on, we suddenly found ourselves in a most picturesque nook, where the river made a bend and a bay, and was overshadowed by trees—a peace-bestowing spot it was, and in the shallow edge of the stream, beneath the sheltering trees, cattle were lazily resting and cooling themselves. Here too we discovered a rambling old mill, the subdued droning of whose great wheel mingled with the plashing of falling water and the murmuring sur—sur—suring of the wind-stirred foliage—sounds that were just enough to make us realise the stillness and tranquilness of the spot. One does not always comprehend the quietude of Nature; we travel too much in company to do this. But besides the old mill, that so pleased us that we forthwith made a sketch of it, there was close at hand an ancient lock, gray and green, and just sufficiently tumble-down to be perfectly picturesque. Look which way we would, we looked upon a picture. Perhaps the one that pleased us best was the view of the great gabled mill as seen from the top of the lock, with the big leafy trees outstretching behind it, and the weedy and worn towing-path winding in front.
OVER FEN AND WOLD.
As we stood by the lock sketching the old mill—called Knight’s mill, we learnt from the lock-keeper—a barge came along drawn by a gray horse, for there is traffic on the Ouse, but only just enough to give it a little needful life and interest. As the barge proceeded on its journey, we observed that, at a point where the tow-path apparently ended, the horse went boldly down into the water and walked on in the river close by the bank where it was shallow; it struck us from this that it would hardly do to rely solely upon the tow-path for exploring purposes.
Not far from the mill and lock is Hemingford Grey, a pretty village whose fine old church stands picturesquely by the side of the river. The church appeared formerly to have possessed a fine spire, but now only a stump of it remains, and each angle of this is adorned with a small stone ball that gives a curious look to the building. Just against the churchyard, that is merely divided from the river by a low wall, is a little landing-place for boats; so we imagined that some of the country folk are rowed or punted to church on Sundays—quite a romantic and an agreeable proceeding in the summer time.
TO CHURCH BY BOAT.
Here we saw a man on the bank fishing with a bamboo rod, contentedly catching nothing—a lesson in patience and perseverance. The rod he declared to be an ideal one to angle with, being so light and strong; nevertheless, we observed that, in spite of this advantage, he had caught no fish. Perchance they were shy or “off their feed” that day; they always seem to be so, I know, when I go a-fishing. Then we asked him about the church spire—had it never been completed, or had it been struck by lightning, or had it been pulled down as unsafe?
“You’ve not guessed right,” he replied; “it was blown down”! Now this struck us as extraordinary. Church spires do not generally get blown down, yet that very day we had come upon two, not very far apart, that had so suffered. Either this part of England must be very windy, or the spires must have been very badly built! It was a strange and puzzling fact.
Cowper stayed some time at Hemingford Grey, and wrote a few of his poems there; and as it seems to me a most charming spot, I am perplexed to understand how he could write of the scenery around Huntingdon, of which it forms part, thus:—“My lot is cast in a country where we have neither woods nor commons, nor pleasant prospects—all flat and insipid; in the summer adorned with willows, and in the winter covered with a flood.” Surely Cowper must have been in an extra melancholy mood at the time, else why does he condemn a country thus, that he praises for its beauties in verse? Are there two standards of beauty, one for poetry and one for prose?
So we rambled on by the cheerful riverside, over the greenest of meadows, past ancient villages and picturesque cottages, past water-mills, and with occasional peeps, by way of change, of busy windmills inland, past primitive locks and shallow fords, till we reached Godmanchester. Our verdict, given after our enjoyable tramp, is that the Ouse from St. Ives to Huntingdon is a most picturesque and paintable stream, simply abounding in picture-making material. Quite as good “stuff” (to use artists’ slang) may be found on the Ouse as on the Thames, with the added charm of freshness, for the beauties of the Thames have been so painted and photographed, to say nothing of being engraved, that they are familiar to all, and over-familiarity is apt to beget indifference!
So we rambled leisurely along by the river side, over meadows spangled with daisies and buttercups, those lowly but bright and lovely flowers
A NARROW ESCAPE
of the sward, by ancient villages and unpretending cottage homes, that pleased because they were so unpretending, by droning water-mills and whirling windmills, by picturesquely neglected locks, by shallow fords, and by countless beauty-bits such as artists love, till we reached Godmanchester—a quiet little town, remarkable neither for beauty nor for ugliness, that stands just over the Ouse from Huntingdon. Here we crossed first some low-lying ground, and then the river by a raised causeway and a long stone bridge, darkly gray from age; on the wall in the centre of this bridge is a stone slab inscribed:—
Robertus Cooke
Ex Aquis emersus
Hoc viatoribus sacrum
D.D. 1637.
It appears that, in the year above stated, this Dr. Robert Cooke, whilst crossing the causeway, then in bad repair, was washed off his feet and nearly drowned, the river running strongly past in heavy flood at the time; and in gratitude for his narrow escape he left in his will a certain sum of money, the interest on which was to be expended in keeping the causeway and bridge in perfect repair for ever.
This reminds me of the historic fact that no less a personage than Oliver Cromwell, when a schoolboy, at this spot and under similar circumstances, also nearly lost his life, but was saved from drowning by the timely aid of a Huntingdon clergyman who was likewise crossing at the time. When, in after years, Cromwell, no longer unknown to fame, chanced to be passing through the streets of Huntingdon at the head of his Ironsides, he happened to notice the very clergyman watching the procession, and, smiling, reminded him of the incident, asking him if he remembered it. “I do well,” replied the clergyman, who bore no love towards the Puritans, “and I wish to God I had let you drown rather than have saved your life to use it to fight against your king.” To which Cromwell sternly retorted, “It was God’s will, you merely acted as His servant to perform His wishes. Be pleased, sir, to remember that.”
