England is a country with edges and with a core. It is a country very
small for the number of people who live in it, and very appreciable to
the eye for the traveller who travels on foot or in a boat from place
to place. Considering the part it has in the making of the world, it
might justly be compared to a jewel which is very small and very
valuable and can almost be held in the hand. The physical appreciation
of England is to be reached by an appreciation of landscape.
It so happens that England is traversed by remarkable and sudden
ranges; hills with a sharp escarpment overlooking great undulating
plains. This is not true of any other one country of Europe, but it is
true of England, and a man who professes to consider, to understand, to
criticize, to defend, and to love this country, must know the Pennines,
the Cotswolds, the North and the South Downs, the Chilterns, the
Mendips, and the Malverns; he must know Delamere Forest, and he must
know the Hill of Beeston, from which all Cheshire may be perceived. If
he knows these heights and has long considered the prospects which they
afford, he can claim to have seen the face of England.
It is deplorable that our modern method of travel does cut us off from
such experiences. They were not only common to, they were necessary to
our fathers; the roads would not be at the expense of tunnelling
through hills, and (what is more important) when those men who most
mould the knowledge of the country by the country (the people who deal
with its soil, who live separate upon its separate farms) visited each
other upon horses; and horses, unlike railway trains, cannot climb
hills. They puff, they heave, they snort, as do railway trains, but
they climb them well.
On this account, because the roads for the carriages went over hills,
and because the method of visiting even a near neighbour would permit
you to go over hills, the England of quite a little time ago was
familiar with the half-dozen great landscapes of England. You may see
it in that most individual, that most peculiar, and, I think, that most
glorious school of painters, the English landscape painter, Constable
with his thick colours, Turner with his wonderment, and even the
portrait painters in their backgrounds depend upon the view of the
plains from a height. To-day our landscape painters sometimes do the
same, but the market for that emotion is capricious, it is no longer
the secure and natural way of presenting England to English eyes.
If you will consider these plains at the foot of the English hills you
will find in them the whole history of the country, and the whole
meaning of it as well. Two occur to me first: The view of the Weald
(both Kentish and Sussex) through which the influence of Europe
perpetually approached the island, not only in the crisis of the Roman
or the Norman invasions, but in a hundred episodes stretched out
through two thousand years—and the view of the Thames Valley as one
gets it on a clear day from the summits of the North Downs when one
looks northward and sees very faintly the Chilterns along the horizon.
This last is obscured by London. One needs a very particular
circumstance in which to appreciate it. The air must be dry and clear,
there must be little or no wind, or if there is a wind it must be a
strong one from the south and west that has already driven the smoke
from the western edge of the town. When this is so, a man looks right
across to the sandy heights just north of the Thames, and far beyond he
sees the Chilterns, like a landfall upon the rim of the world. He looks
at all that soil on which the government of this country has been
rooted. He sees the hill of Windsor. He overlooks, though he cannot
perceive at so great a distance, the two great schools of the rich; he
has within one view the principal Castle of the Kings, the place of
their council, and the cathedral of their capital city: so true is it
that the Thames made England.
Then, if you consider the upper half of that valley, the view is from
the ridge of the Berkshire hills, or, better still, from Cumnor, or
from the clump of trees above Faringdon. From such look-outs the
astonishing loneliness which England has had the strength to preserve
in this historic belt of land profoundly strikes a man. You can see to
your left and, a long way off, the hill where, as is most probable,
Alfred thrust back the Pagans, and so saved one-half of Christendom.
Oxford is within your landscape. The roll upwards in a glacis of the
Cotswold, the nodal point of the Roman roads at Cirencester, and the
ancient crossings of the Thames.
From the Cotswold again westward you look over a sheer wall and see one
of those differences which make up England. For the passage from the
Upper Thames to the flat and luxuriant valley floor of the Severn is a
transition (if it be made by crossing the hills) more sudden than that
between many countries abroad. Had our feudalism cut England into
provinces we should here have two marked provincial histories marching
together, for the natural contrast is greater than between Normandy and
Brittany at any part of their march or between Aragon and Castile at
any part of theirs. I do not know what it is, but the view of the
jagged Malvern seen above the happy mists of autumn, when these mists
lie like a warm fleece upon the orchards of the vale, preserving them
of a morning until the strengthening of the sun, the sudden aspect, I
say, of those jagged peaks strikes one like a vision of a new world.
How many men have thought it! How often it ought to be written down! It
hangs in the memory of the traveller like a permanent benediction, and
remains in his mind a standing symbol of peace.
I have no space to speak of how from Beeston you see all Cheshire; the
Vale Royal to your left, and the main plain of the county to your
right. The whole stretch is framed in with definite hills, the last and
highly marked line of the Pennines bounds the view upon the east; upon
the west the first of the Welsh hills stands sharply in a long even
line against the fading sun; and on the north you see the height of
Delamere. There are three other views in the North of England, the
first easy, the last two difficult to obtain, all between them making
up a true picture of what the North of England is. The first (and it is
very famous) is the view over the industrial ferment of South
Lancashire, seen from the complete silence of the hills round the Peak.
No matter where you cross that summit, even if you take the high road
from the Snake Inn to Glossop, where the easiest, and therefore the
least striking, passage has been chosen, much more if you follow the
wild heights a little to the south until you come to a more abrupt
descent on which there are not even paths, there comes a point where
there is presented to you in one great offering, without introduction,
a vision of the vast energies of England.
I remember once in winter when the sun sets early (it was December, and
seven years ago) coming upon this sight. The clouds were so arranged
after an Atlantic storm that all the heaven (which here is always
spacious and noble) was covered with a rolling curtain as though a man
had pulled it with his hands. But far off, westward, there was a broad
red band of sunset, and against this the smoke, the tall stacks, the
violence and the wealth of that cauldron. One could almost hear the
noise. It did arrest one; it was as though someone had painted
something unreal, to be a mystical emblem, and to sum up in one picture
all those million despairs, misfortunes, chances, disciplines, and
acquirements which make up the character of Lancashire men. This vision
also many men have seen and many men shall write of. Very rarely upon
the surface of the earth does the soul take on so immediate and obvious
a physical body as does the soul of that industrial world in the view
of which I speak.
And the two other views are, first, that difficult one which one must
pick and choose but which can be obtained from several sites
(especially at the end of Wensleydale), and which is the view of that
rich, old, and agricultural Yorkshire, from which the county draws its
traditions and in which, perhaps, the truest spirit of the county still
abides; for Yorkshire is at heart farmer, and possibly after three
generations of a town, a man from this part of England still looks more
lively when he sees a lively horse put before him for judgment. Second,
the view from Cross Fell, very, very difficult to obtain, for often
when one climbs Cross Fell in sunny weather, one gets up over the Scar
under the threat of cloud, and one only reaches the summit by the time
the evening or the mist has fallen; but if one has the luck to see the
view of which I speak, then one sees all that rugged remaining part of
the Northwest exactly as the Romans saw it, and as it has been for two
thousand years, with the high land of the lakes and the stony nature
and the sparseness of all the stretch about one, and the approach to a
foreign land.
I have often thought when I have heard men blaming the story of England
or her present mood for false reasons, or, what is worse, praising her
for false reasons; when I have heard the men of the cities talking wild
talk got from maps and from print, or the disappointed men talking wild
talk of another kind, expecting impossible or foreign perfections from
their own kindred—I have often thought, I say, when I have heard the
folly upon either side (and the mass of it daily increases)—that it
would be a wholesome thing if one could take such a talker and make him
walk from Dover to the Solway, exercising some care that he should rise
before the sun, and that he should see in clear weather the views of
which I speak. A man who has done that has seen England—not the name or
the map or the rhetorical catchword, but the thing. And it does not
take so very long.