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 oneafter 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!
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.
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.
Oneof 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 beingsomewhat 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 faithfulPatersonto 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 asquare 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 thatdoesdecorate, 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 ofnoisy 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 livingwork 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 ofLord Braybrooke’s Diary of Samuel Pepys, edited by H. B. Wheatley, it is stated: “Samuel Knight, D.D., author of theLife 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.” Havingrecovered 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 becauseso 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 fromPickwick, and sundry scenes from novels of the out-of-date romantic school.
AN OLD COACHING INN: COURTYARD OF THE GEORGE, HUNTINGDON.
AN OLD COACHING INN: COURTYARD OF THE GEORGE, HUNTINGDON.
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! dowait 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!
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!
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 paidlittle 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 vastforest 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 theStandardgiving 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 andhave 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 shelteringtrees, 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 HemingfordGrey, 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 CookeEx Aquis emersusHoc viatoribus sacrumD.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 afteryears, 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.”
Cromwell’s birthplace—Records of the past—Early photographs—A breezy day—Home-brewed ale—Americans on English scenery—Alconbury Hill—The plains of Cambridgeshire—The silence of Nature—Stilton—A decayed coaching town—A medieval hostelry—A big sign-board—Old-world traditions—Miles from anywhere.
Cromwell’s birthplace—Records of the past—Early photographs—A breezy day—Home-brewed ale—Americans on English scenery—Alconbury Hill—The plains of Cambridgeshire—The silence of Nature—Stilton—A decayed coaching town—A medieval hostelry—A big sign-board—Old-world traditions—Miles from anywhere.
Returningto our comfortable hostelry after our pleasant wanderings, we felt just sufficiently tired to enjoy the luxury of taking our ease therein, but “hungry as hunters” from our long tramp, therefore we rejoiced in the fact that the worthy landlady had not forgotten her guests, for we found quite a sumptuous repast awaiting us, worthy of the ancient traditions of the house, though we on our part, it must be confessed, were not equally worthy of the traditions of our ancestors in the wine side of the feast; indeed, our healthy out-of-door life gave us a positive distaste for wine of any kind. We always infinitely preferred a homely draught of good old English ale, than which, for thirsty mortals, a better drink has yet to be invented!
It may be remembered—though we only gleaned the fact whilst in Huntingdon—that Oliver Cromwell was born in that town, and was educated at the grammar school there. The house in which theProtector “first saw the light of day” has, alas! been pulled down, but an ancient drawing thereof represents it as being a comfortable and substantial two-storied building, apparently of stone, having Tudor mullioned windows and three projecting dormers in the roof. At the commencement of the century the house was standing, and was shown as one of the sights of the place. If only photography had been invented earlier, what interesting and faithful records might have been preserved for us of such old historic places which are now no more! As it is, we have to be content with ancient drawings or prints of bygone England, and these not always skilfully done, nor probably always correct in detail. Furthermore, artists, then as now, perhaps more then than now, romanced a little at times, and therefore were not so faithful to facts as they might have been; as witness many of Turner’s poems in paint, which, however beautiful as pictures, are by no means invariably true representations of the places and scenes they profess to portray. Indeed, there is a story told of Turner, who, when sketching from Nature upon one occasion, deliberately drew a distant town on the opposite side of the river to which it really stood, because, as he explained, “It came better so”!
PHOTOGRAPHIC RECORDS
An unknown and very kind friend some time ago most courteously sent me a number of prints from paper negatives taken in the early days of photography by the Fox-Talbot process, and amongst these chanced to be an excellent view of the ancient hostelry of the “George” at Norton St. Philips in Somerset (a wonderful old inn, by the way, which Ihave already very fully described in a former work[1]). When I received the prints, I had only recently both carefully drawn and photographed the quaint old-time hostelry, and I found that, even in the comparatively short period that had elapsed since the Fox-Talbot negatives were made, certain marked changes had taken place in the building; so there can be no doubt as to the value and interest of such recording photographs, for the lens has no bias, but faithfully reproduces what is before it, neither adding to nor taking away therefrom for the sake of effect. Now that, fortunately, both the amateur and professional photographer are in evidence everywhere, future generations will happily possess true, if not always artistic, representations of places and historic spots as they really were at the time of being taken; and in the case of matters of antiquarian or archæological interest, we can well pardon the probable loss of picturesqueness for the sake of accuracy. Fancy, if we could only have to-day photographs preserved for us showing, for example, Fountains Abbey in the full glory of its Gothic prime, or of other notable buildings of the medieval age, how we should prize them! If we only had a few faithful photographs of Elizabethan England to compare with Victorian England, what a precious possession they would be! What would not one give for a “snap-shot” of the Invincible(?) Armada arrogantly sailing up the English Channel in stately procession, or of the innumerable pageants of bygone times with all their wealth of picturesque paraphernalia!
[1]Through Ten English Counties.
[1]Through Ten English Counties.
We were up early in the morning, and before breakfast had made a sketch of the quaint and ancient courtyard of the “George,” an engraving of which is given in the last chapter. By a little after nine the dog-cart, packed for travelling, was at the side door of our inn, and bidding good-bye to the landlady—who in the good old-fashioned manner had come to see us off and wish us a pleasant journey—we took our departure, and were soon once more in the open country. Overnight we had, as our wont, consulted our map as to our next day’s stage, and determined that we would drive to Stamford, just twenty-five and three-quarter miles from Huntingdon, according to our faithfulPaterson.
Again we had delightful weather: a fresh, invigorating breeze was blowing from the west; overhead was a deep blue sky, from which the sun shone warmly, but not too warmly, down. The air was clear and sweet, and the country all around full of brightness, colour, and movement, for the wind swayed the trees in its path, and made golden waves as it swept over the unreaped corn-fields, and green ones as it passed over the long grasses in the meadows; it rippled the waters on ponds and rivers, and whirled the sails of the windmills round at a merry pace; the brisk breeze gave animation to the landscape, and seemed to imbue it with actual life. Huntingdonshire, fortunately for the traveller therein, possesses no large manufacturing towns, Huntingdon, St. Neots, and St. Ives being of the compact, clean, homely order—more agricultural centres than commercial ones. Therefore the atmosphere of the county isnot smoke-laden or oppressed with grayness, but pure, bright, and buoyant, with the scent of the real country about it—an atmosphere that makes one suddenly realise that there is a pleasure in merely breathing!