Biggleswade--“Instituted” or “intruded”!--A poetical will--The
river Ivel--A day to be remembered--The art of
seeing--Misquotations--The striving after beauty--Stories in
stone--An ancient muniment chest--An angler’s haunt--The town
bridge--The pronunciation of names--St. Neots.
Some three miles or so beyond Astwick we reached high ground, from which
we had extensive views to the right over miles of fields and undulating
greenery. Shortly after this we dropped down into the drowsy old town of
Biggleswade; at least it struck us as being a very drowsy sort of place
when we were there, but doubtless it wakes up to a little life and
movement once a week, on market-days. Even the Biggleswade dogs looked
sleepily inclined, curled up under the shelter of various doorways,
hardly indeed condescending to give us a glance as we passed by; whilst
the nature of dogs generally is to make the arrival of a stranger in
their parts an excuse to rush out and bark at him, good-naturedly or the
reverse as the mood moves them. A dog seems to reason with himself,
“Barking is the chief pleasure of life; here comes a stranger, let’s
have a bark!”
Here we drove into the ancient and rambling stable-yard of an old inn
near the market-place, and
[Sidenote: _A SUGGESTIVE WORD_]
handed our horses over to the good keeping of the ostler; and whilst our
lunch was being prepared we wandered out to have a look round the town,
but found nothing to specially interest us, so all else failing, we
sought the church. Even here we did not discover much to reward us,
though the open and carved timber roof of the south aisle was good, with
its ornamental bosses and corbels formed of sculptured figures of
angels, the whole being more or less decayed and the worse for age. On
the woodwork are some slight remains of decorative painting.
Placed against the wall of the church we observed a board with the
following heading--“The Vicars of Biggleswade,” followed by a list of
names of the said vicars, “from 1276 to the present time, with the dates
of their Institution.” Glancing down the long list of names, after each
we noticed the word “instituted,” followed by the date thereof; but when
we came to that of William Raulius, we noted instead of the usual
“instituted,” the suggestive word and date “intruded 1658” was inserted!
Of this church my _Paterson’s Roads_, that does duty as a sufficient
guide-book for us, remarks: “This substantial ancient edifice was built
in the year 1230; it was formerly collegiate, and still contains several
of the stalls. The parishioners have all an equal right to any of the
seats, for which privilege, however, they are constrained to repair or
rebuild the fabric when requisite.” Under the heading of “Biggleswade,”
the same excellent road-companion also remarks of Sutton Park, near by,
on the road to Potton, “It is traditionally stated that this seat
formerly belonged to John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, who gave it to
Roger Burgoyne, ancestor of the present proprietor, by the following
laconic grant:--
I, John of Gaunt,
Do give and do grant,
Unto Roger Burgoyne,
And the heirs of his loin,
Both Sutton and Potton,
Until the world’s rotten.
There is also a moated site in the park, still known by the name of John
of Gaunt’s Castle.”
Leaving Biggleswade, we crossed the river Ivel, but until the crossing
thereof we had no idea that there was a river of such a name in
England,--a driving tour is certainly helpful to a better and more
minute knowledge of the geography of one’s own land. Then we entered
upon a far-reaching level stretch of country, with a great expanse of
sunny sky above, and the silvery sheen of stilly waters showing below in
slothful river and clear but stagnant dyke. We could trace our road for
miles ahead in curving lines lessening to the low horizon, inclining
first this way and then that, now disappearing, to reappear again along
way off. The eye--the artistic eye at any rate--rejoices in such a
succession of sinuous curves, as much as it abhors the dictatorial and
monotonous straight line; it likes to be led by gentle and slow degrees
into the heart of the landscape, and away beyond into the infinity of
space where the vague distance vanishes into the sky. Possibly the
muscles of the eye more readily
[Sidenote: _A PLEASANT LAND_]
adapt themselves to such easy and gradual transition from spot to spot
than to the harsher insistence of a straight line. Nature herself hardly
ever indulges in the latter; man may make it, but she, in time, on every
opportunity, mars it gloriously.
On either hand, as we drove on, stretched a level land of tilled fields
and verdant meadows, the many colours of the crops and the varied greens
of the pastures forming a gigantic mosaic. To the right of us rose some
rounded fir-crowned hills, if hills be the right term, for only perhaps
in a flat country would such modest elevations be dignified with the
title of hills. These, to employ a familiar painter’s expression, “told”
deeply blue--with all the beauty of ultramarine and all the depth of
indigo.
It was an open breezy prospect, delightful to gaze upon, though there
was nothing exciting or grand about it save the great distances and the
wide over-arching sky; but it had the charm of wonderful colouring, and
was full of lightness and brightness that was most inspiriting; full of
cheery movement too, where the wild wind made rhythmic waves of the long
grasses and unreaped fields of corn, and rustled the leaves and bent the
topmost branches of the saplings before its gentle blasts, or where it
rippled the gliding waters of the winding river and silvery streams,
causing them to glance and sparkle in the flooding sunshine. All Nature
seemed buoyant with an exuberant vitality upon that almost perfect
afternoon, and the gladness of the hour entered into our very souls and
made us exultant accordingly! It was a day to call fondly back to mind
when pent up in London during the darksome and dreary November days,
half asphyxiated with the smoke and sulphur laden atmosphere; then the
very remembrance of such a time of golden sunshine and fresh and
fragrant breezes is of untold refreshment.
Some people might have deemed that prospect, composed chiefly of flat
fields, sluggish waters, and scattered trees, uninteresting and
unbeautiful, with nothing to commend it, still less to rave about; but
there is such a thing as the art of seeing, which art reveals, to those
who cultivate it, beauty in the most unexpected places. The charm of
form and colour is often a noteworthy factor that makes for beauty in a
prospect that is devoid of the picturesque and the “sweetly pretty.” The
best training in the art of seeing and discovering beauty that I know is
to make a series of sketches from Nature, in colour--water-colour for
preference, as being clearer of tint and easier applied. Take, for
instance, a bit of an old stone wall, or, better still, a
weather-stained boulder on some moor, outline it as well as you
can--never mind the drawing at first, it is the colour you must look
for--copy these tint for tint, hue for hue, as faithfully as you can.
Before starting you may imagine that the rugged boulder is simply gray
all over, lighter on the side where the sun shines, and darker in the
shadows, and that is all; but as you try to represent its surface you
will soon discover, if you only look hard and carefully enough, that
what you at first deemed to be merely a mass of gray is composed of a
myriad changeful colours:
[Sidenote: _A NEW SENSE_]
there are sure to be the silver, and the gold, and perchance the red, of
clinging lichen (glorious colours these); then there are the greens of
mosses, and countless weather-stains here and there, all to be given;
then the rock itself, you will perceive as the eye gets more accustomed
to its novel task, is composed of countless tints, changing with almost
every change of surface, and where the boulder lies half in shadow you
will perceive a sort of blue-gray bloom--look very hard for this; then
the blackest shadows, you will note, are rich and deep, and look quite
colourful beside any single tint you may mix in the hope of representing
them. The more you study that boulder, the more colour you will see in
it; and if all this unexpected colour exists in one simple rock, to
leave the charms of varying form unconsidered, what must there not exist
on the whole wide moor? Look for yourself and see. After your eye has
had its first lesson in the art of seeing and searching out the
beautiful, it will naturally, unconsciously almost, begin to look for it
everywhere--and expect it! I fear I have perhaps written this in too
didactical a manner, but I find it difficult to express myself clearly
otherwise, and must plead this as my excuse for a failing I find it so
hard to endure in others.
It was sketching from Nature that first taught me to look for and find
beauties in my everyday surroundings that before I had never even
imagined to exist. This art of seeing came to me like a new sense--it
was a revelation, and it has ever since afforded me so much positive and
lasting pleasure, that I can truly say it has materially increased the
happiness of my life. Surely if “a man who can make two blades of grass
grow where one grew before is a benefactor to his race,” to add, however
slightly, to the happiness of life is to be a benefactor too, humble
though the addition may be.
Now, after this over-long digression, let us once more resume the even
tenor of our tour. I had nearly written the even tenor of our way, and
placed the words between inverted commas, so familiar does the saying
sound; but I find on reference that Gray really wrote “the noiseless
tenor of their way,” which is not exactly the same thing, and it is as
well to be correct in small details as in great. It is astonishing to me
how often familiar quotations go wrong in the quoting; indeed, it is
rather the exception to find them rightly given. I have only just to-day
come across two instances of this whilst glancing over a magazine
article. First I note that Milton’s “fresh woods and pastures new” is
rendered, as it mostly is, “fresh fields and pastures new”; then
Nathaniel Lee’s “when Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war” is
misquoted, as usual, “when Greek meets Greek,” etc., quite losing the
point that when the ancient--not the modern!--Greeks were joined
together they were a doughty foe. But now I am wandering again right off
the road!
Driving on, we presently crossed the little river Ivel by a gray stone
bridge, beneath which the stream ran clear and brightly blue. Across the
bridge we found ourselves in the straggling village
[Sidenote: _A SUDDEN CONTRAST_]
of Girtford. This began well with pretty cottages roofed with homely
thatch; then passing a wayside public-house with the uncommon title of
“The Easy Chair” (a sign that we do not remember to have met with
before), the village ended badly, in a picturesque point of view, with a
row of uninteresting cottages of the modern, square-box type, shelters
for man rather than habitations--commonplace, alas! and unsightly. The
sudden contrast from the old to the new was an object-lesson in ancient
beauty and modern ugliness.
The progressive nineteenth century, by the mean and hideous structures
it has erected over all the pleasant land, has done much towards the
spoliation of English scenery. It has done great things, truly. It has
created railways, it has raised palaces, mansions, huge hotels, monster
warehouses, tall towers, and gigantic wheels of iron; but it has
forgotten the way of rearing so simple and pleasing a thing as a
home-like farmstead; it cannot even build a cottage grandly. Yet how
well our ancestors knew how to do these. Still, the wanderer across
country now and then sees signs of better things, a promise of a return
to more picturesque conditions, and this sometimes in the most
out-of-the-way and unexpected quarters. Thus, during our drive, have we
chanced upon a quaint and freshly-painted inn sign done in a rough but
true artistic spirit, supported by wrought-iron work of recent date,
worthy of the medieval craftsman; and in quiet market-towns and remote
villages have our eyes occasionally been delighted by bits of thoughtful
architecture, the outcome of to-day, with their gable fronts, mullioned
windows, and pleasant porches, in reverent imitation of what is best in
the old. Besides these, sundry restorations of ancient buildings
backwards, not forwards, point to a striving again for beauty.
An excellent and most delightful example of the revival of picturesque
village architecture we discovered the other year when driving through
Leigh, near Tunbridge, where the modern cottages are all pictures,
charming to look upon with their half-timber framework, thatched roofs
of the true Devon type, many gables, big chimneys, and quaint
porches--all modern, but imbued with the spirit and poetry of the past.
It is as though a medieval architect had been at work on them. The
simple cottages are nobly designed; there is no starving of material in
the attempt to make the utmost of everything; they are all humble
abodes, yet dignified; a millionaire might live in one and not be
ashamed; and withal they are essentially English. If they have a
failing, it is perhaps that they look a trifle artificial--too
suggestive of the model village or of stage scenery; but this I take it
arises mainly because we are not accustomed in these commonplace days to
find poetry out of books and paintings, so that the coming suddenly upon
it realised in bricks and mortar strikes one for the moment as strange
and unreal.
After another stretch of wide, open country, flushed with air and
suffused with sunshine, the hamlet of Tempsford was reached. By the
roadside
[Illustration: A WAYSIDE INN.]
[Sidenote: _AN ANCIENT CHEST_]
here stood the ancient fane, gray and dusky with years. Its door was
unfastened, so we stepped inside. Our hoary churches are stories in
stone, to those who can read them; though not always is the reading
easy, or the story complete. The first thing on entering that attracted
our attention was an unusually fine medieval muniment chest, its age
uncertain, but without doubt centuries old. It had evidently been cut
out of the solid trunk of a tree (presumably of an oak). The chest is
now much worm-eaten, and is bound round with many broad iron bands, and
further secured by five locks. They had great faith in big locks in
those days--locks with twisted keyholes, though to the modern mind they
look easy enough to pick. The problem that presented itself to us was,
seeing that about two-thirds of the wood was interlaced with these metal
bands, why was not the chest at the start made wholly of iron? In this
case the bands promise to outlast the worm-eaten and decaying wood they
enclose, though in some old chests of a similar nature the iron has
rusted more than the wood has perished, possibly owing to atmospheric
conditions, for dampness would probably destroy the iron quicker than
the wood, and dryness would reverse these conditions.
At the west end of the north aisle we observed a curious triangular
window, and in the pavement at the base of the tower we found two flat
tombstones a little apart. One is inscribed in Latin to the memory of
“Knightley Chetwode,” and the other in English to his wife, who, we
learnt, was noted for her “piety towards God, fidelity to the King and
the Protestant succession”; though why the virtues of the husband
should be set forth in Latin and those of his wife in English I do not
quite see.
On the wall of the tower we also noted the following inscription cut in
a stone slab, the exact import of which was not very clear to us;
possibly it related to some rebuilding:--
Wi[=ll] Savnderson Gē
and Thō[=m] Staplo Yēō
Overseers of this New
Work & patentyes of his
Maiesties Letters
Patent Granted for
the same May xii--1621.
The lettering of this was delightfully full of character, and pleasing
to look upon simply for the forms of the letters--a something quite
apart from the mechanical precision with which the present-day engravers
render their works, possibly because they cannot do otherwise; it does
not require much thought to be simply precise!
Just beyond Tempsford our road came close to the side of the
quiet-flowing Ouse, and there, where for a space the road and river ran
together, stood an inviting and picturesque inn, whose sign was that of
“The Anchor.” An ideal angler’s haunt it seemed to us as we passed by,
with an old punt and boats close inshore, and shady trees overhanging
the gleaming stream. There was a look of homely repose about the spot
quite incommunicable in words, a beauty about the fresh greens and
silvery grays of the wind-stirred foliage to be felt, not described.
[Sidenote: _THE WINDING OUSE_]
And how deep and rich were the luscious reflections where the woods
doubled themselves in the glassy flood! How peace-bestowing it all was!
We would, for the moment, that we were simple fishermen, and that this
were our journey’s end! Great was the temptation to stop and laze a
while, but we resisted it and drove on. We feared, perhaps, though we
did not confess this to ourselves, that too close an inspection might
rob us of our pleasant impressions. We had an ideal, and wished to keep
it! There is an art in knowing how much to leave unseen!
On now we drove, through a land of broad and luxuriant meadows, cool and
tree-shaded, till we reached Eaton Socon, a pretty village with a small
green and a fine large church. Within the sacred edifice we discovered
little of interest, only portions of a rather good timber roof, a carved
oak screen of fair workmanship, and the remains of a squint blocked up.
If there were anything else noteworthy we managed very successfully to
miss it.
Then a short stretch of road brought us once more to the blue winding
Ouse; at least it looked very blue that day. This we crossed on an
ancient, time-worn bridge, that had great recessed angles at the sides
wherein pedestrians might retreat and watch the long track of the
glimmering river, and dream day-dreams, should they be so minded, safely
out of the way of road traffic, and undisturbed by the passing and
repassing of those afoot. On the other side of the river we found
ourselves _at once_ in the wide market-place of St. Neots. At the
bridge the country ended and the town began; there were no straggling
suburbs to traverse. Close at hand, right in the market-place, we caught
sight of an inviting hostelry, the “Cross Keys” to wit. The first glance
at the old inn was enough to decide us in its favour. Relying on the
instinct begotten of long years of road travel, we had no hesitation in
directly driving under the archway thereof, where we alighted in the
courtyard, and sought and obtained, just what we then mostly needed,
comfortable quarters for the night. In the case of the selection of an
hostelry, we had learnt to judge by outside appearances, in spite of the
proverb to the contrary effect. Even in proverbs there are exceptions to
the rule!
I should imagine, from the glance we had on passing over, that the
bridge at St. Neots forms a sort of outdoor club for a number of the
townsfolk. There is something magnetic about a river that equally
attracts both the young and the old; it is bright and open, it has the
charm of movement, and there is nearly always life of some kind to be
found by the waterside. Thither, too, at times the fisherman, or at any
rate the fisher-urchin, comes; and what a fascination there is for most
minds in watching an angler pursuing his sport, even though in vain! I
have frequently observed that in country towns where there is a widish
river and a convenient bridge over it, there on that bridge do certain
of the citizens regularly congregate at evening-time, when the day’s
work is done, for a chat, a quiet smoke, and “a breath of air before
turning in.” The town
[Sidenote: _THE CHARM OF MYSTERY_]
bridge has become quite an institution in some places!
As we went out to do a little shopping, we were amused and instructed to
hear the different ways that the natives pronounced the name of their
town. One would have imagined that there was only one way of doing this,
but we discovered three: the first party we conversed with distinctly
called it St. Notes, a second as emphatically declared it to be St.
Nots, and still another would have it St. Neets, whilst we as strangers
had innocently pronounced it as spelt; and now I do not feel at all
certain as to which is the prevailing local appellation, or if there may
still be another variety.
Our bedroom window faced the old market-square--a large, open, and
picturesque space, pleasant to look upon; and at the window we sat for a
time watching the life of the place and the odd characters coming and
going. It was all as entertaining to us as a scene in a play, and a good
deal more so than some, for there was no indifferent acting in our
players, and no false drawing in the background--the perspective was
perfect! And, as we watched, the light in the west gradually faded away,
whilst the moon rose slowly and shone down, large and solemn, through
the haze that gathered around when the dusk descended. The gentle
radiance of the moonlight made the mist luminous with a mellow light--a
light that lent the magic charm of mystery to the prospect. The houses,
grouped irregularly round the square, were indistinctly revealed, all
their harsher features being softened down; then one after another
lights gleamed forth from their many-paned windows, with a warm yellow
cheerfulness in marked contrast with the cold silvery moonshine without.
The mist-damped roadway was reflective, and repeated vaguely the yellow
gleams above, and imparted to the scene quite a Turneresque effect.
Above the low-roofed houses, dimly discernible, rose the tall tower of
the stately parish church, so grand a church that it has earned the
epithet of “the cathedral of Huntingdon.” It was a poetic vision, very
beautiful and bewitching to look upon, we thought; but, after all, much
of the beauty in a prospect lies in the imaginative qualities of the
beholder: we may all see the same things, yet we do not see them in the
same manner!