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.
One of 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 being somewhat
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,
[Sidenote: _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 faithful _Paterson_ to 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
a square 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
[Sidenote: _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 that _does_ decorate, 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 of
noisy 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
[Sidenote: _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
living work 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 of _Lord Braybrooke’s Diary of Samuel
Pepys_, edited by H. B. Wheatley, it is stated: “Samuel Knight, D.D.,
author of the _Life 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.
[Sidenote: _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.” Having recovered 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
[Sidenote: _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 because so 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 from _Pickwick_, and sundry scenes from novels of the
out-of-date romantic school.
[Illustration: AN OLD COACHING INN: COURTYARD OF THE GEORGE,
HUNTINGDON.]
[Sidenote: _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! do wait 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
[Sidenote: _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!
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 paid little 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
[Sidenote: _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 vast forest 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 the _Standard_ giving 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 and have 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.
[Sidenote: 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 sheltering trees, 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.
[Sidenote: 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 Hemingford Grey, 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.
[Sidenote: 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
[Sidenote: _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 Cooke
Ex Aquis emersus
Hoc viatoribus sacrum
D.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 after years, 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.”