ANCIENT LANDMARKS
Just about here, it must be confessed, our map failed us; indeed, I am inclined to think that it omitted some of the roads altogether: quite possibly the engraver may have confused them with the river or the innumerable dykes that intersect the land in every direction. The more we studied the map the more confused we became, till we folded it up and put it carefully away, lest it should cause us to use bad language. A map that fails, just when you most need its guidance, what a temper-trying thing it is! However, a gentleman we met later on during our tour had something more temper-trying to contend with: it appeared that he started out touring in a motorcar, and the thing broke down utterly, on an unsheltered stretch of road in the midst of a drenching thunderstorm, so that he had to beg the loan of a horse from a farmer to get the machine housed. To make the matter worse, some of the people thought it a matter to laugh over, to see a horse lugging the helpless motor along; but remembering that horses sometimes go lame on a journey (though whilst touring we have never been delayed by such a mishap), we sympathised with our fellow-wayfarer.
Before we put our map away, however, a close scrutiny of it revealed to us two spots marked with a cross, and after each cross the legends respectively of “Kenulph’s Stone” and “St. Guthlak’s Cross.” The former of these was one of the four boundary stones of “the halidome” of the Abbey, and may still be found by the side of the Welland; the brokenshaft of the latter, with curious lettering thereon, is also to be seen at Crowland. According to learned antiquaries the lettering forms the following Latin inscription:—“Aio hanc petram Guthlacvs habet sibi metam.”
A land of dykes—Fenland rivers—Crowland Abbey—A unique triangular bridge—Antiquaries differ—A mysterious statue—A medieval rhyme—A wayside inscription—The scenery of the Fens—Light-hearted travellers—Cowbit—A desolate spot—An adventure on the road—A Dutch-like town.
A land of dykes—Fenland rivers—Crowland Abbey—A unique triangular bridge—Antiquaries differ—A mysterious statue—A medieval rhyme—A wayside inscription—The scenery of the Fens—Light-hearted travellers—Cowbit—A desolate spot—An adventure on the road—A Dutch-like town.
Sowe drove on till the tall hedgerows ceased and the country became more open and assumed a wilder aspect: narrow dykes or ditches now divided the fields instead of the familiar fences, so that our eyes could range unimpeded over the wide landscape. Then presently, as we proceeded, a high and long grass-grown embankment came into view, right in front of us, and so our prospect ahead was suddenly shut in, reduced from miles to yards! Approaching close to this embankment, we found that our road turned sharply to the left and ran immediately below and alongside of it. Here we pulled up and scrambled to the top of the steep bank, just “to see what was on the other side.” The mystery of the vast earthwork was solved: it was no Brobdingnagian railway scheme, but an earthwork constructed to keep the river Welland in bounds when flooded, though just then the river flowed sluggishly along, deep down below its high-banked sides, as innocent-looking a stream as could well be imagined.
One striking peculiarity of the Fenland rivers is that they are mostly held in thus by banks and are not allowed, as English rivers generally are, the liberty to meander about at their own sweet will; for in these parts the primary use of a river appears to be to do duty as a mighty drainage dyke, and this curbing of wilful nature gives such rivers an exceedingly artificial and somewhat tame look. Quaint to English eyes is it to observe these great river-banks standing high above the surrounding country and highways, for often, for convenience of construction, do the roads follow the course of the streams and water-ways. Well is this division of Lincolnshire called “Holland” or “Holland in England,” as some maps have it. Indeed, this mighty level land, now smiling with yellow corn-crops and rich green pastures, was erst a swampy waste, more water than land; fit only to be the home of wildfowl and coarse fish, till sundry Dutch engineers undertook to reclaim it, importing their own countrymen to assist in the task. We were told by a Lincolnshire man that several of the Dutch workmen never returned home, but settled and married in the new “Holland in England” that their labours had helped to create; furthermore, we were told that a goodly number of purely Dutch names still existed in the county.
After following along and below the embankment for a mile or more, our road took to itself a sudden whim and boldly mounted to the top of the bank which was wide enough to drive upon, and from our elevated position we had a space-expressing prospect over a level country, reaching all round to the long,low circling line of the bounding horizon. Though we could not have been raised much above sea-level, still I have climbed high mountains for a far inferior view. It is not the height one may be above a scene that gives the observer therefrom the best impression of it; indeed one may easily be elevated too far above scenery to appreciate it properly. A bird’s-eye view of a landscape is not the one an artist would select to paint; there is such a thing as a picturesque and an unpicturesque way of looking on an object. Sometimes, truly, scenery has been painted as a bird sees it, for the sake of novelty; but novelty is not synonymous with beauty: they may join hands at times, but as a rule they are utter strangers one to another.
DIFFICULT DRIVING
Then as we drove slowly and carefully on—for there were no fences to the road on either side and it was not over safe to approach too near the edges, or we might have been precipitated into the river on one hand, or on to the fields below on the other, either of which events would have brought our outing to a sudden termination—as we drove thus cautiously on, the one remaining tower and great vacant archway of Crowland’s lonely abbey came into sight, standing out a tender pearly-gray mass against the sunlit sky: in all the ocean of greenery round about there was nothing else in sight that raised itself noticeably above the general level.
There was something very impressive in this first view of the ancient fane, rising in crumbling yet solemn majesty out of the ever-green world below; a poem in stone, laden with ancient legendand fraught with misty history. It was a scene for a pilgrim, pregnant with peacefulness, and as lovely as a dream. Yet how simple was the prospect—a gray and ruined abbey, a silent world of green suffused with faint sunshine that filtered through the thin clouds above! Below us and before us stretched the river gleaming for miles between its sloping banks, winding away towards the picturesque pile of ancient devotion in curving parallels that narrowed toward the distant horizon to a mere point; and this describes all that was before us!
After the abbey’s pathetic ruins, beautiful with the beauty of decay, what most struck us was the sense of solitude, silence, and space in our surroundings. On every side the level Fenland stretched broad as the sea, and to the eye appearing almost as wide and as free; and from all this vast lowland tract came no sound except the hardly to be distinguished mellow murmuring of the wind amongst the nearer sedges and trees. The river flowed on below us in sluggish contentment without even an audible gurgle; no birds were singing, and, as far as we could see, there were no birds to sing; and in the midst of this profound stillness our very voices seemed preternaturally loud. There are two such things as a cheerful silence and a depressing silence; the difference between these two is more to be felt than described: of course all silence is relative, for such a thing as absolute silence is not to be found in this world; but the quietude of the Fens, like that of the mountain-top, simulates the latter very successfully. The thick atmosphere about us hadthe effect of subduing sounds doubtless, whilst it held the light, as it were, in suspense, and magnified and mystified the distance. The profound quietude prevailing suggested to us that we were travelling through an enchanted land where all things slept—a land laid under some mighty magic spell.
A DISPUTED SPELLING
As we proceeded along our level winding way, with the river for silent company, the outline of the ruined abbey gradually increased in size, and presently we found ourselves in the remote out-of-the-world village of Crowland—or Croyland as some writers have it; but I understand that certain antiquaries who have studied the subject declare that the latter appellation is quite wrong, and as they may be right I accept their dictum and spell it Crowland with my map, though, authorities and map aside, I much prefer Croyland as the quainter title.
The inhabitants appear to spell the name of their village indifferently both ways. One intelligent native, of whom we sought enlightenment, said he did not care “a turn of the weathercock” which way it was spelt, which was not very helpful; but we were grateful for the expression “a turn of the weathercock,” as it was fresh to us. He further remarked, apropos of nothing in our conversation, “You might as well try to get feathers from a fish as make a living in Crowland; and the people are so stupid, as the saying goes, ‘they’d drown a fish in water.’”Manifestly he was not in love with the place. He did not even think much of the old abbey: “It’s very ruinous,” was his expression thereof.
Crowland is a thoroughly old-world village; I know no other that so well deserves the epithet: its gray-toned cottages, grouped round the decayed and time-rent fane, save the ruins from utter desolation. Crowland impressed us as a spot that exists simply because it has existed: like the abbey, it looks so old that one can hardly imagine it was ever new. It is—
A world-forgotten village,Like a soul that steps asideInto some quiet havenFrom the full rush of tide.A place where poets still may dream,Where the wheels of Life swing slow;And over all there hangs the peaceOf centuries ago.
A world-forgotten village,Like a soul that steps asideInto some quiet havenFrom the full rush of tide.A place where poets still may dream,Where the wheels of Life swing slow;And over all there hangs the peaceOf centuries ago.
A world-forgotten village,Like a soul that steps asideInto some quiet havenFrom the full rush of tide.A place where poets still may dream,Where the wheels of Life swing slow;And over all there hangs the peaceOf centuries ago.
Crowland village, apart from its ruined abbey, is quaint rather than beautiful; it appeals to the lover of the past perhaps more than to the lover of the picturesque. We found there a primitive and clean little inn where we stabled our horses and procured for ourselves a simple, but sufficient, repast that was served in a tiny parlour. Whilst waiting for our meal to be prepared, having no guide-book, we consulted ourPaterson’s Roadsto see if it gave any particulars of the place, and this is what we discovered: “Crowland, a place of very remote antiquity, particularly interesting to the antiquary on account of the ruins of its once extensive and splendid abbey, and its singular triangular-shaped bridge, is now reduced to the size of a large village that possesses little more than the ruins of its former
THE ISLE OF CROWLAND
splendour. The chief existing remains of the abbey are the skeleton of the nave of the conventual church, with parts of the south and north aisles; the latter of which is covered over, pewed, and fitted up as a parish church. The triangular bridge in the middle of the town may be looked upon as one of the greatest curiosities in Britain, if not in Europe; it is of stone, and consists of three pointed arches springing from as many abutments that unite their groins in the centre.... Crowland being so surrounded by fens is inaccessible, except from the north and east, in which directions the road is formed by artificial banks of earth, and from this singular situation it has been, not inaptly, compared to Venice.” I have again quoted from this old and famous road-book, which was as familiar to our forefathers as “Bradshaw” is to us, because it shows the sort of combination of road-book and guide that the pre-railway traveller was provided with, all England and Wales being included in one thick volume. Paterson’s accounts of famous spots and places of interest are not perhaps so learned or long as those of the modern hand-book, but they are possibly sufficient, and brevity is an advantage to the tourist who desires to arrive quickly at his information.
In olden days it would seem that the spot whereon Crowland now stands was one of the many Fen islands, consisting of comparatively dry and firm soil that rose above the general level of the moist lowlands, or, to be more exact, a wilderness of shallow waters—a district described by Smiles as“an inland sea in winter, and a noxious swamp in summer”; but so slight is the rise of the land that to the superficial observer it scarcely seems to rise at all. Here—on this “Isle of Crowland”—as it was formerly called in company with other similar islands, such as the better-known “Isle of Ely”—the old monks built their abbey, remote and fengirt from the outer world, only to be approached at first by boats, and, in long years after also, by a solitary raised causeway frequently under water and nearly always unsafe and untravellable in winter. The problem to me is how ever all the stone required for the building was secured. Presumably most of it was brought down the Welland from Stamford; but what a long and laborious task the carrying of it must have been. Still, the problem sinks into insignificance like that of Stonehenge, for all authorities on this mysterious monument of antiquity agree that the nearest spot to Salisbury Plain from which the igneous rocks that compose the inner circle could come, would be either Cornwall or North Wales! An effective word-picture of the early monastery is given in Kingsley’sHereward the Wakewhich I take the liberty to quote, though he describes the building as being chiefly of timber, but the first historic record declares that it was “firmly built of stone.” Thus, then, Kingsley writes: “And they rowed away for Crowland ... and they glided on until they came to the sacred isle, the most holy sanctuary of St. Guthlac and his monks.... At last they came to Crowland minster, a vast range of high-peaked buildings founded onpiles of oak and alder driven into the fen, itself built almost entirely of timber from the Bruneswold; barns, granaries, stables, workshops, strangers’ hall, fit for the boundless hospitality of Crowland; infirmary, refectory, dormitory, library, abbot’s lodgings, cloisters; with the great minster towering up, a steep pile, half wood, half stone, with narrow round-headed windows, and leaden roofs; and above all the great wooden tower, from which on high-days chimed out the melody of the seven famous bells, which had not their like in English land.” So minute is the detailed description of that which was such a long time off that one is almost tempted to wonder how Kingsley knew all this.
A TRIANGULAR BRIDGE
Leaving our little inn we first inspected the exceedingly quaint triangular bridge that stands in the main thoroughfare—a thoroughfare without any traffic it appeared to us, nor did we see where any future traffic was to come from. This structure is stated to be positively unique. Apart from its uncommon form, it certainly has a curious appearance to-day, as the roadway below is dry, and the “three-way bridge,” as it is locally called, has much the meaningless look that a ship would have stranded far inland. This quaint structure consists of three high-pitched half arches, at equal distances from each other, that meet at the top. The way over the bridge is both narrow and steep, so that manifestly it could only have been intended for pedestrians.
Much good ink has been spilt by antiquaries and archæologists anent the peculiar form of the bridge, and different theories have been put forward tosolve this enigma in building: some authorities having declared their belief that it was a mere freak of the monks indulged in from pure eccentricity; others reason that it was intended to support a high cross, but surely a bridge would hardly have been built as a foundation for this? And it is so manifestly a bridge complete in itself, though novel in design, nor does there appear to me to be room for the base of an important cross on the apex of the arches where alone it could come. It is verily an archæologicalpons asinorum. Personally I find a difficulty in subscribing to either the freak or the cross theory; indeed, a more reasonable solution of the puzzle presents itself to me as one who does not look for out-of-the-way causes. It seems possible, rather should I say highly probable, that when the bridge was built, in the days before the drainage of the Fens, a stream may have flowed past here, and it may have been joined by another Y fashion. To cross these streams where they both met to the three points of dry ground would entail a triangular bridge, and the monks were equal to the occasion! The only fault I can find with this theory is that it is so simple! Shortly after writing this, in looking over an old portfolio of pictures, I chanced upon a rather crude, but fairly faithful, engraving of this very bridge. The work was not dated, but I judged it to be of the late seventeenth or of the early eighteenth century, a pure guess on my part. However, it is interesting to note that this ancient engraving showed two streams flowing under the bridge precisely as suggested. I merely mentionthe fact, though it proves really nothing, for the engraver or artist may easily have added the water, imagining that it ought to be there. Here again the advantage of photography is apparent, for the lens has no bias, and if it seldom lends itself to the picturesque, at least it does not invent accessories.
A STATUE ASTRAY
On the parapet at the foot of the bridge is a mutilated and weather-worn statue, having apparently a crown on its head and a globe in its hand. An absurd local tradition declares this to be intended for Cromwell holding a ball. Why it should be fathered on to the Protector is beyond my understanding; it is more than probable that it existed centuries before he was born. Looking sideways at the figure it is noticeably thin, and was manifestly only intended to be seen from the front. One may therefore, I think, reasonably conclude that it originally came from a niche in the abbey, for it is quite out of place on the bridge, and could never have properly belonged to it. Most probably, judging from similar old sculptures, it was intended for our Lord, and had place in the centre of the pediment over the west front of the abbey, a portion of the building that has now disappeared. Some antiquaries, however, maintain that it is intended for King Ethelbald, the founder of the monastery; this would be a plausible enough suggestion but for the fact that this king is already represented amongst the statues that still adorn the abbey.
The mouldings, ribs, and vaultings of the arches indicate the date of the present bridge to be about the middle of the fourteenth century. It is worthy ofnote how readily an archæologist may determine the approximate date of an ancient building by its style, even, if needs be, by a small portion of its carvings; but what will the archæologists of centuries hence be able to make of our present jumble of all periods? a mixture of past forms from which the meaning and true spirit have fled. Indeed, a certain famous English architect once boasted, I have been told, that he made such an excellent copy of an Early English building, even to the working of the stones roughly, in reverent imitation of the original, that he gave it as his opinion that, in the course of a century or two, when the new building had become duly time-toned, weather-stained, and the stone-work crumbled a little here and there, no future antiquary would be able to distinguish it from a genuine Early English structure, unless possibly by its better state of preservation. Alas! the nineteenth century has no specially distinguishing style, save that of huge hotels and railway stations! Our most successful ecclesiastical edifices are but copies of various medieval examples. We can copy better than we can create! A new architectural style worthy of the century has yet to be invented, and it appears as though—in spite of much striving after—the century will pass away without such an achievement.
Then we made our way to the ruined abbey in the reverent spirit of an ancient pilgrim, although in the further spirit of this luxurious century our pilgrimage was performed with ease on wheels, and not laboriously on foot. The most picturesque and interesting part of this fane of ancient devotion isthe beautiful west front, glorious even in ruin, with its elaborate decorations, its many statues standing, as erst, each in its niche, its great window, now a mighty void, shaftless and jambless, and its graceful pointed Gothic doorway below. An illustration of this portion of the abbey is given with this chapter. The other portions of the building are of much archæological interest, but not so statelily picturesque, nor can any drawing in black and white suggest the wonderful wealth of weather-tinting that the timeworn masonry has assumed. The summer suns and winter storms of unremembered years have left their magic traces upon the wonderful west front of this age-hallowed shrine, tinging it with softest colouring varying with every inch of surface!
RESTORERS OLD AND NEW
Within the ancient nave now open to the sky, where grows the lank, rank grass under foot in place of the smooth inlaid pavement often trod by sleek abbot, and meek or merry monk, we observed the base of a Perpendicular pillar round which the earth had been excavated, apparently to show the foundation, and we noticed that this was composed of various old carved stones of an earlier period of architecture, presumably when the abbey was undergoing a medieval restoration or rebuilding; plainly proving, as is well known, that the builders of the past did not hold their predecessors’ works so very sacred, and to a certain extent the modern restorer would be justified in quoting this fact in extenuation of his doings, or misdoings, “What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander” surely? Only those medieval restorers sinned so magnificently, and themodern restorer, as a rule, sins so miserably! From the medieval reconstructor to the restorer of the Churchwarden era is a vast gulf. It would be an archæological curiosity and an object lesson in ecclesiastical construction if we could have preserved for our study and edification a church showing all the varying periods of architecture, from the crude Saxon and stern Norman to that of to-day!
Reluctantly we left Crowland’s old ruined abbey that stands alone in crumbling, dusky majesty, as though solemnly musing over the chances and changes of its chequered life’s long history. This remote and hoary pile, surrounded by the wild waste of watery fens, impressed us with an undefinable feeling of mystery and melancholy—a mystery that had to do with the past, and a melancholy that had to do with the present. No other ruin has impressed us quite in the same way, but then Crowland Abbey has a striking individuality seen from near or afar; it is utterly unlike any other spot, and from every point of view forms a most effective picture. Time has fraught its ancient walls with meaning, and the rare dower of antiquity, the bloom of centuries is gathered over them all—a bloom that has beautified what man and age have left of the former hallowed sanctuary. Now a solemn peacefulness broods incumbent over Crowland’s solitary tower, broken arches, and decaying masonry. No more, as in the days of old, at evensong when the silent stars come out, does the belated fisherman stop his skiff awhile by the side of the inland isle, to listen to the sweet chanting of the monks, mingling with the organ’s
CROWLAND ABBEY.
CROWLAND ABBEY.
CROWLAND ABBEY.
CROWLAND ABBEY
solemn thunder-tones. The poetry and the romance of the ancient faith and days have departed, and the prosaic present strikes a purely pathetic key—of things that have been and are no more! The ancient abbey
in ruin stands lone in the solitude;The wild birds sing above it, and the ivy clings around,And under its poppies its old-time worshippers sleep sound:Relic of days forgotten, dead form of anancientfaith,Haunting the light of the present, a vanished Past’s dim wraith!. . . . . . .And the winds wail up from the seaward, and sigh in the long grave grassA message of weltering tides, and of things that were and must pass.
in ruin stands lone in the solitude;The wild birds sing above it, and the ivy clings around,And under its poppies its old-time worshippers sleep sound:Relic of days forgotten, dead form of anancientfaith,Haunting the light of the present, a vanished Past’s dim wraith!. . . . . . .And the winds wail up from the seaward, and sigh in the long grave grassA message of weltering tides, and of things that were and must pass.
in ruin stands lone in the solitude;The wild birds sing above it, and the ivy clings around,And under its poppies its old-time worshippers sleep sound:Relic of days forgotten, dead form of anancientfaith,Haunting the light of the present, a vanished Past’s dim wraith!. . . . . . .And the winds wail up from the seaward, and sigh in the long grave grassA message of weltering tides, and of things that were and must pass.
Reluctantly, as I have said, we left this lonely Fenland fane, a legend in stone: a dream of Gothic glory in its prime, and a thing of beauty in decay; and beauty is a more precious possession than glory! Very beautiful did the ancient ruin look as we took our farewell glance at it, with the warm sun’s rays touching tenderly its gray-toned walls and lightening up their century-gathered gloom, whilst the solemn shadows of pillared recesses and deepset arches lent a mystic glamour to the pile, as though it held some hidden secrets of the past there, not to be revealed to modern mortals, all of which aroused our strongest sympathies, or a feeling close akin thereto—for I know not for certain whether mere inert matter can really arouse human sympathy, though I think it can.
This wild and wide Fenland was anciently renowned for its many and wealthy monasteries.A medieval rhyme has been preserved to us that relates the traditional reputations these religious establishments respectively had. Of this rhyme there are two versions, one is as follows:—
Ramsey, the bounteous of gold and of fee;Crowland, as courteous as courteous may be;Spalding the rich, and Peterborough the proud;Sawtrey, by the way, that poore abbaye,Gave more alms in one dayThan all they.
Ramsey, the bounteous of gold and of fee;Crowland, as courteous as courteous may be;Spalding the rich, and Peterborough the proud;Sawtrey, by the way, that poore abbaye,Gave more alms in one dayThan all they.
Ramsey, the bounteous of gold and of fee;Crowland, as courteous as courteous may be;Spalding the rich, and Peterborough the proud;Sawtrey, by the way, that poore abbaye,Gave more alms in one dayThan all they.
The other version runs more fully thus:—
Ramsey, the rich of gold and of fee,Thorney, the flower of many a fair tree,Crowland, the courteous of their meat and drink,Spalding, the gluttons, as all people do think,Peterborough, the proud, as all men do say:Sawtrey, by the way, that old abbey,Gave more alms in one day than all they.
Ramsey, the rich of gold and of fee,Thorney, the flower of many a fair tree,Crowland, the courteous of their meat and drink,Spalding, the gluttons, as all people do think,Peterborough, the proud, as all men do say:Sawtrey, by the way, that old abbey,Gave more alms in one day than all they.
Ramsey, the rich of gold and of fee,Thorney, the flower of many a fair tree,Crowland, the courteous of their meat and drink,Spalding, the gluttons, as all people do think,Peterborough, the proud, as all men do say:Sawtrey, by the way, that old abbey,Gave more alms in one day than all they.
From Crowland we decided to drive some nine and a half miles on to Spalding, where we proposed to spend the night; or rather the map decided the matter, for our choice of roads out of Crowland, unless we went south, was limited to this one; it was a pure case of “Hobson’s choice,” to Spalding we must go, and thither we went. Mounting the dog-cart once more we were soon in the open country; our road, like that of the morning, was level and winding, with the far-reaching fens all around, that stretched away through greens, yellows, russets, and grays to a hazy horizon of blue. A short distance on our way by the roadside we observed a large notice-board, that claimed our
A WAYSIDE RECORD
attention from its size, so we pulled up the better to examine it, and found this legend plainly painted thereon:—
1000 Milesin1000 Hours,by Henry Girdlestone,at the age of 56,in the year 1844.
As, nowadays, people mostly travel by rail, this record of a past performance is wasting its information in the wilderness for want of readers, so I have been tempted to repeat the account of Mr. Henry Girdlestone’s feat here.
Our road was an uneventful one; the scenery it provided was somewhat monotonous, but there was a certain inexplicable fascination about its monotony as there is in that of the sea. It had the peculiar quality of being monotonous without being wearisome. As in our drive to Crowland, what especially struck us in our drive therefrom was the sense of silence, space, and solitude. Spread out around us were leagues upon leagues of level land, like a petrified sea, that melted away imperceptibly into a palpitating blueness in which all things became blended, indistinct, or wholly lost. Leagues of grass lands and marshes, splashed here and there with vivid colour, and enlivened ever and again by the silvery gleam of still, or the sunlit sparkle of wind-stirred water; its flatness accentuated, now and again, by a solitary uprising poplar, or a lonely, lofty windmill—built high to catch every wind—andthese served to emphasise the general solitude: the prevailing silence was made the more striking by the infrequent peevish cry of some stray bird that seemed strangely loud upon the quiet air.
The scenery could not be called picturesque, yet it possessed the rarer quality of quaintness, and it therefore interested us. In a manner it was beautiful on account of its colour, and the sky-scape overhead was grand because so wide, whilst it flooded the vast breadth of unshaded land with a wealth of light. After all, let mountain lovers say what they will, a flat land has its charms; it may not be “sweetly pretty,” but it is blessed with an abundance of light, and light begets cheerfulness; and its cloud-scapes, sunrises, and sunsets, that compel you to notice them, are a revelation in themselves. A Dutch artist once told me, when I was pointing out to him what I considered the paintable qualities of the South Downs, that he honestly considered hills and mountains a fraud, as they hid so much of the sky, which, to him, appeared infinitely more beautiful and changeful both in form and colour. “There is a fashion in scenery,” said he; “mountain lands have been fortunate in their poets and writers; some day a poet or great writer may arise who will sing or describe for us the little-heeded beauties of the lowlands, and the hills will go out of fashion. The public simply admire what they are told to admire.” If Ruskin had only been born in the lowlands of Lincolnshire, then might we have had some chapters in his works enlarging upon their peculiar beauties! Truly Tennyson wasborn in Lincolnshire, but he was born in the Wolds surrounded by woods and hills. Even so, Tennyson has not done for the Wolds what Scott has done for the Scotch Highlands; the scenery of the Wolds has its special charms, but it is no tourist-haunted land, yet none the less beautiful on that account, and selfishly I am thankful that there are such spacious beauty spots still left to us in England unknown to, and unregarded by, the cheap-tripper. Let us hope that no popular guide-book will be written about certain districts to needlessly call his attention to them.
A NOVEL EXPERIENCE
This corner of England that we were traversing has an unfamiliar aspect to the average Englishman; the buildings and people therein truly are English, intensely English, but, these apart, the country looks strange and foreign. It is a novel experience to drive for miles along an embanked road looking down upon all the landscape, just as it is equally curious, on the other hand, to drive along a road below an embanked river! Keen and fresh came the breezes to us from over the mighty fens, for they were unrestrained even by a hedge; pleasantly refreshing and scented were they with the cool odours of marsh flowers, plants, and reeds. The fields being divided by dykes and ditches, in place of hedges, the landscape gained in breadth, for the sweep of the eye was not continually arrested by the bounding hedges that but too often cut up the prospect of the English country-side, chess-board fashion.
At one spot low down to the right of our waywas a swampy bit of ground, half land, half water, if anything more water than land; here tall reeds were bending and tossing about before the wild wind, and the pools of water were stirred by mimic waves, and in the heart of all this was a notice-board inscribed “Trespassers will be prosecuted”! Somehow this simple and familiar warning in such a position brought to mind the comic side of life and aroused much merriment, for who in the wide world would wish to trespass there? We were in such good humour with ourselves and all things that we were easily amused: our superabundance of health begot a mirthful spirit readily provoked and difficult to damp. I verily believe that when trifles went wrong on the journey, which by the way they very seldom did, then we were the merriest, as though to show that nothing could depress us. I remember on a former tour that we got caught in a heavy storm of rain when crossing an open moor; the storm came up suddenly from behind and took us quite by surprise, so that we got pretty well wet before we could get our mackintoshes out; shelter was there none, and the result was that, after a couple of hours’ driving along an exposed road, we arrived at a little country inn positively drenched through to the skin, the water running off the dogcart in streams, and all things damp and dripping, yet in spite of our sorry plight we felt “as jolly as a sandboy,” and could not restrain our laughter at the dismal picture we presented as we drove into the stable-yard; indeed, we treated the matter as a huge joke, and I thought to myself, “Now if only CharlesKeene were here to sketch us arriving thus, what an excellent subject we should make for aPunchpicture with the legend below ‘The pleasures of a driving tour!’”So excellent did the joke appear to us that we had changed our saturated clothing and put on dry things, and had warmed ourselves before a roaring wood fire which the kind-hearted landlady had lighted for us, and had further refreshed ourselves with the best the house could provide, before our merry spirits quieted down. So it took some time to quiet them down!
A LEANING TOWER
Now this digression has taken us to the village of Cowbit, a dreary, forsaken-looking place, desolate enough, one would imagine, to disgust even a recluse. Here we noticed the dilapidated church tower was leaning very much on one side, owing doubtless to the uncertain foundation afforded by the marshy soil; indeed, it leaned over to such an extent as to suggest toppling down altogether before long, so much so that it gave us the unpleasant feeling that it might untowardly collapse when we were there. It may be that the tower will stand thus for years; all the same, did I worship in that fane I feel sure I should ever be thinking rather about the stability of the fabric than of the prayers or of the sermon!
Leaving this forsaken spot—where we saw neither man, woman, nor child, not even a stray dog or odd chicken about to lessen its forlorn look—a short way ahead we discovered that our way was blocked by a broken-down traction engine, a hideous black iron monster of large proportions,that stood helplessly right in the very centre of the road, so that it was extremely doubtful if there were sufficient room left for us to pass by; and if we failed to do this and our wheels went over the edge of the embankment we were on, which was fenceless on both sides, the dog-cart and horses might very probably follow suit. Some men were busily hammering and tinkering at the engine; they said that she had broken down an hour ago, and they had not been able to get her to move since, but fortunately there had been no traffic coming along, and we were the first party to arrive on the scene. All of which was very entertaining and informative, but not very helpful as to how we were to proceed. Did they think we could possibly get by? Well, they did not know, they hardly thought so; but they would measure the width of our carriage and the width of the roadway left. This being duly done, it was discovered that there was just room, but not even the proverbial inch to spare. Thereupon we naturally concluded that the margin for safety was insufficient! Here was a pleasant predicament to be in! We could not well go back; on the other hand the men confessed that they had no idea when they would be able “to get the thing to work again.” The steam was up, but when turned on the iron monster snorted, creaked, and groaned, but resolutely refused to budge. “Something has given way, and we be trying to mend it” was the only consolation offered us, beyond the fact that they had sent a man over to Spalding for help, but when he would return they
A DILEMMA
did not know; “It were certainly bad luck that we should have been right in the middle of the road when she gave out, but you see we never expected anything of the kind.” It was an unfortunate position of affairs; if we decided to attempt to drive by, and our horses shied or swerved ever so little in the attempt, a serious accident was almost a certainty; so, after considering the matter well, a happy, if troublesome, way out of the difficulty occurred to us: this was to unharness both horses and lead them past the obstructing engine, then to wheel the dog-cart after as best we could. Just as we had decided to do this, the monster gave another spasmodic snort or two and began to move in a jerky fashion, only to break down again, then the men set to work once more a-hammering. How long would this go on? we wondered. However, the few yards that the engine had managed to move was to one side, which gave us a little more room to pass, whereupon, acting under a sudden impulse, we whipped the horses up, and taking tight hold of the reins dashed safely by, but it was “a touch and go” affair; our horses did swerve a trifle, and we just missed bringing our tour to a conclusion on the spot, but “all’s well that ends well,” and “a miss is as good as a mile!”
After this little episode we had a peaceful progress on to Spalding undisturbed by further adventure. The approach to this essentially old-world-looking town from the Crowland direction alongside the river Welland—which is here embanked and made to run straight, canal fashion, and has shadytrees and grassy margins on either side—is exceedingly Dutch-like and very pleasant. Few English towns have so attractive an approach; it gave us a favourable impression of the place at once—so imperceptibly the country road became the town street, first the trees, then the houses. Spalding is a place that seems more of a natural growth, an integral part of the scenery, so in harmony is it therewith, rather than a conglomeration of houses built merely for man’s convenience. Such charmingly old-fashioned, prosperous, but delightfully unprogressive towns are not to be met with every day, when the ambition of most places appears to be more or less a second-hand copy of London; and at a sacrifice of all individuality they strive after this undesirable ideal. How refreshing is a little originality in this world, that grows more sadly commonplace and colourless year by year! Alas! we live in an age of civilised uniformity, an age that has given us railways and ironclads in far-off Japan, and tramway lines and Frenchtables d’hôtein the very heart of ancient Egypt! Soon the only ground the unconventional traveller will have left to him will be the more remote spots of rural England! It is far more primitive and picturesque to-day than rural new America with its up-to-date villages lighted with electricity, and stores provided with all the latest novelties of Chicago or New York! Where will the next-century mortal find the rest and repose of the past?
Driving into Spalding we noticed the ancient hostelry of the “White Hart” facing the market
“HARPER YE HOST”
square, a hostelry that was ancient when the railways still were young, and on the lamp that projected over the centre of this old house we further noticed the quaint legend “Harper ye Host,” a conceit that pleased us much. “A host must surely be one of the right sort thus to proclaim himself,” we reasoned, “we will place ourselves under his care”; so without more ado we drove beneath the archway into the courtyard, and confidently handed our horses over to the ready ostler’s charge, and sought for ourselves entertainment and shelter beneath the sign of the “White Hart.”
Spalding—“Ye Olde White Horse Inne”—An ancient hall and quaint garden—Epitaph-hunting—A signboard joke—Across the Fens—A strange world—Storm and sunshine—An awkward predicament—Brown—Birthplace of Hereward the Wake—A medieval railway station!—Tombstone verses.
Spalding—“Ye Olde White Horse Inne”—An ancient hall and quaint garden—Epitaph-hunting—A signboard joke—Across the Fens—A strange world—Storm and sunshine—An awkward predicament—Brown—Birthplace of Hereward the Wake—A medieval railway station!—Tombstone verses.
Wedetermined that we would devote the next morning to leisurely exploring Spalding, armed with sketch-book and camera, for the ancient town promised, from the glance we had of it whilst driving in, to provide plenty of picturesque and quaint material for both pencil and lens.
We had not to search long for a subject, for in less than five minutes we came upon a tempting architectural bit in the shape of a past-time inn, with a thatched roof, high gables, and dormer windows, whose swinging signboard proclaimed it to be “Ye Olde White Horse Inne.” It was a building full of a certain quiet character that was very pleasing—a home-like and unpretentious structure whose picturesqueness was the outcome of necessity, and all the more charming for its unconsciousness.
Then wandering by the waterside we chanced upon a beautiful and ancient house called Ayscough Hall, gray-gabled, time-toned, and weather-worn, with a great tranquil garden of the old-fashioned sort
OLD GARDENS
in the rear, rejoicing in the possession of massive yew hedges, clipped and terraced in the formally decorative manner that so delighted the hearts and eyes of our ancestors, who loved to walk and talk and flirt between walls of living green. In olden days the architect often planned the garden as well as the house; so, as at Haddon Hall, Montacute, and elsewhere, we frequently find the stone terrace forming an architectural feature in the grounds, and immediately beyond this Nature trimmed, tamed, and domesticated with prim walks and trees fantastically cut into strange shapes. And what delightful retreats and pleasant pictures these old formal gardens make: perhaps it would be well if nowadays the architect of the house were employed to design the grounds that it will stand in; but alas! this is not a home-building age, so only rarely is the idea feasible—for does not the modern man generally buy his “desirable residence” ready-made as he does his furniture, fitting into it as best he may?
Upon inquiry we learnt that this charming old-world hall with its dreamy garden, so eloquent of the past, had been purchased by the town for a public park. Fortunate people of Spalding! And what a unique and enjoyable little park it will make if it is only left alone and preserved as it is; but if for a passing fad or fashion the landscape gardener is ever let loose thereon, what havoc may be wrought under the cuckoo-cry of improvement! Such old gardens are the growth of centuries; money will not create them in less time, yet, sad to realise, they may be destroyed in a few weeks or days! Whatthe modern restorer is to an ancient and beautiful church, so is the modern landscape gardener to the quaintly formal old English garden.
The house itself appeared to be deserted and shut up, so that unfortunately we were unable to obtain a glance at its interior. Some portions of the building looked very old, possibly as early as the fifteenth century, especially a large stone-mullioned window, filled—we judged from the exterior view—with some interesting specimens of ancient heraldic glass, but the other portions were of later date, and signs of nineteenth-century modernising were not wanting. We asked a man we saw if he knew how old the oldest part of the hall was, and he honestly replied that he did not; “but it be a goodish bit older nor I. You sees they don’t register the birth of buildings as they does babies, so it’s difficult to find out how old they be.” Then the man chuckled to himself, “You sees I’se a bit of a wit in my way,” but it was just what we did not see; nevertheless we put on a conventional smile just to please him, whereupon, in a confidential whisper, he informed us where we could get “as good a glass of ale as is to be had in all Lincolnshire, if not better, and I don’t mind a-showing you the way there and drinking your very good health.” It is rather damping to think how many of our conversations with rural folk have come to a similar ending. “Why,” we rejoined in feigned surprise, “you look like a teetotaler; you surely would not be seen drinking beer in a public-house.” The air of mute astonishment that pervaded his features was a study. “Well, I’m blest!”