Nowhere in England, perhaps nowhere in Europe, is the autumnal foliage
more charmingly tinted than on the banks of the Wye, where it runs
through the shire of Hereford. There Vaga threads her way amid woods
that appear painted, and in colours almost as vivid as those of the
famed American forests. The beech, instead of, as elsewhere, dying off
dull bistre, takes a tint of bright amber; the chestnut turns
translucent lemon; the oak leaves show rose-colours along their edges,
and the wych-hazel coral red by its umbels of thickly clustering fruit.
Here and there along the high-pitched hill sides flecks of crimson
proclaim the wild cherry, spots of hoar white bespeak the climbing
clematis, scarlet the holly with its wax-like berries, and maroon red
the hawthorn; while interspersed and contrasting are dashes of green in
all its varied shades, where yews, junipers, gorse, ivy, and other
indigenous evergreens display their living verdure throughout all the
year, daring winter's frosts, and defying its snows.
It is autumn now, and the woods of the Wye have donned its dress; no
livery of faded green, nor sombre russet, but a robe of gaudiest sheen,
its hues scarlet, crimson, green, and golden. Brown October elsewhere,
is brilliant here; and though leaves have fallen, and are falling, the
sight suggests no thought of decay, nor brings sadness to the heart of
the beholder. Instead, the gaudy tapestry hanging from the trees, and
the gay-coloured carpet spread underneath, but gladden it. Still
further is it rejoiced by sounds heard. For the woods of Wyeside are
not voiceless, even in winter. Within them the birds ever sing, and
although their autumn concert may not equal that of spring,--lacking its
leading tenor, the nightingale--still is it alike vociferous and alike
splendidly attuned. Bold as ever is the flageolet note of the
blackbird; not less loud and sweet the carol of his shyer cousin the
thrush; as erst soft and tender the cooing of the cushat; and with mirth
unabated the cackle of the green woodpecker, as with long tongue,
prehensile as human hand, it penetrates the ant-hive in search of its
insect prey.
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October it is; and where the Wye's silver stream, like a grand
glistening snake, meanders amid these woods of golden hue and glorious
song, a small row-boat is seen dropping downward. There are two men in
it; one rowing, the other seated in the stern sheets, steering. The
same individuals have been observed before in like relative position and
similarly occupied. For he at the oars is Jack Wingate, the steerer
Captain Ryecroft.
Little thought the young waterman, when that "big gift"--the ten pound
bank-note--was thrust into his palm, he would so soon again have the
generous donor for a fare.
He has him now, without knowing why, or inquiring. Too glad once more
to sit on his boat's thwarts, _vis-a-vis_ with the Captain, it would ill
become him to be inquisitive. Besides, there is a feeling of solemnity
in their thus again being together, with sadness pervading the thoughts
of both, and holding speech in restraint. All he knows is that his old
fare has hired him for a row down the river, but bent on no fishing
business. For it is twilight. His excursion has a different object;
but what the boatman cannot tell. No inference could be drawn from the
laconic order he received at embarking.
"Row me down the river, Jack!" distance and all else left undefined.
And down Jack is rowing him in regular measured stroke, no words passing
between them. Both are silent, as though listening to the plash of the
oar-blades, or the roundelay of late singing birds on the river's bank.
Yet neither of these sounds has place in their thoughts; instead, only
the memory of one different and less pleasant. For they are thinking of
cries--shrieks heard by them not so long ago, and still too fresh in
their memory.