A land of dykes--Fenland rivers--Crowland Abbey--A unique
triangular bridge--Antiquaries differ--A mysterious statue--A
medieval rhyme--A wayside inscription--The scenery of the
Fens--Light-hearted travellers--Cowbit--A desolate spot--An
adventure on the road--A Dutch-like town.
So we drove on till the tall hedgerows ceased and the country became
more open and assumed a wilder aspect: narrow dykes or ditches now
divided the fields instead of the familiar fences, so that our eyes
could range unimpeded over the wide landscape. Then presently, as we
proceeded, a high and long grass-grown embankment came into view, right
in front of us, and so our prospect ahead was suddenly shut in, reduced
from miles to yards! Approaching close to this embankment, we found that
our road turned sharply to the left and ran immediately below and
alongside of it. Here we pulled up and scrambled to the top of the steep
bank, just “to see what was on the other side.” The mystery of the vast
earthwork was solved: it was no Brobdingnagian railway scheme, but an
earthwork constructed to keep the river Welland in bounds when flooded,
though just then the river flowed sluggishly along, deep down below its
high-banked sides, as innocent-looking a stream as could well be
imagined.
One striking peculiarity of the Fenland rivers is that they are mostly
held in thus by banks and are not allowed, as English rivers generally
are, the liberty to meander about at their own sweet will; for in these
parts the primary use of a river appears to be to do duty as a mighty
drainage dyke, and this curbing of wilful nature gives such rivers an
exceedingly artificial and somewhat tame look. Quaint to English eyes is
it to observe these great river-banks standing high above the
surrounding country and highways, for often, for convenience of
construction, do the roads follow the course of the streams and
water-ways. Well is this division of Lincolnshire called “Holland” or
“Holland in England,” as some maps have it. Indeed, this mighty level
land, now smiling with yellow corn-crops and rich green pastures, was
erst a swampy waste, more water than land; fit only to be the home of
wildfowl and coarse fish, till sundry Dutch engineers undertook to
reclaim it, importing their own countrymen to assist in the task. We
were told by a Lincolnshire man that several of the Dutch workmen never
returned home, but settled and married in the new “Holland in England”
that their labours had helped to create; furthermore, we were told that
a goodly number of purely Dutch names still existed in the county.
After following along and below the embankment for a mile or more, our
road took to itself a sudden whim and boldly mounted to the top of the
bank which was wide enough to drive upon, and from our elevated position
we had a space-expressing prospect over a level country, reaching all
round to the long, low circling line of the bounding horizon. Though we
could not have been raised much above sea-level, still I have climbed
high mountains for a far inferior view. It is not the height one may be
above a scene that gives the observer therefrom the best impression of
it; indeed one may easily be elevated too far above scenery to
appreciate it properly. A bird’s-eye view of a landscape is not the one
an artist would select to paint; there is such a thing as a picturesque
and an unpicturesque way of looking on an object. Sometimes, truly,
scenery has been painted as a bird sees it, for the sake of novelty; but
novelty is not synonymous with beauty: they may join hands at times, but
as a rule they are utter strangers one to another.
[Sidenote: _DIFFICULT DRIVING_]
Then as we drove slowly and carefully on--for there were no fences to
the road on either side and it was not over safe to approach too near
the edges, or we might have been precipitated into the river on one
hand, or on to the fields below on the other, either of which events
would have brought our outing to a sudden termination--as we drove thus
cautiously on, the one remaining tower and great vacant archway of
Crowland’s lonely abbey came into sight, standing out a tender
pearly-gray mass against the sunlit sky: in all the ocean of greenery
round about there was nothing else in sight that raised itself
noticeably above the general level.
There was something very impressive in this first view of the ancient
fane, rising in crumbling yet solemn majesty out of the ever-green world
below; a poem in stone, laden with ancient legend and fraught with
misty history. It was a scene for a pilgrim, pregnant with peacefulness,
and as lovely as a dream. Yet how simple was the prospect--a gray and
ruined abbey, a silent world of green suffused with faint sunshine that
filtered through the thin clouds above! Below us and before us stretched
the river gleaming for miles between its sloping banks, winding away
towards the picturesque pile of ancient devotion in curving parallels
that narrowed toward the distant horizon to a mere point; and this
describes all that was before us!
After the abbey’s pathetic ruins, beautiful with the beauty of decay,
what most struck us was the sense of solitude, silence, and space in our
surroundings. On every side the level Fenland stretched broad as the
sea, and to the eye appearing almost as wide and as free; and from all
this vast lowland tract came no sound except the hardly to be
distinguished mellow murmuring of the wind amongst the nearer sedges and
trees. The river flowed on below us in sluggish contentment without even
an audible gurgle; no birds were singing, and, as far as we could see,
there were no birds to sing; and in the midst of this profound stillness
our very voices seemed preternaturally loud. There are two such things
as a cheerful silence and a depressing silence; the difference between
these two is more to be felt than described: of course all silence is
relative, for such a thing as absolute silence is not to be found in
this world; but the quietude of the Fens, like that of the mountain-top,
simulates the latter very successfully. The thick atmosphere about us
had the effect of subduing sounds doubtless, whilst it held the light,
as it were, in suspense, and magnified and mystified the distance. The
profound quietude prevailing suggested to us that we were travelling
through an enchanted land where all things slept--a land laid under some
mighty magic spell.
[Sidenote: _A DISPUTED SPELLING_]
As we proceeded along our level winding way, with the river for silent
company, the outline of the ruined abbey gradually increased in size,
and presently we found ourselves in the remote out-of-the-world village
of Crowland--or Croyland as some writers have it; but I understand that
certain antiquaries who have studied the subject declare that the latter
appellation is quite wrong, and as they may be right I accept their
dictum and spell it Crowland with my map, though, authorities and map
aside, I much prefer Croyland as the quainter title.
The inhabitants appear to spell the name of their village indifferently
both ways. One intelligent native, of whom we sought enlightenment, said
he did not care “a turn of the weathercock” which way it was spelt,
which was not very helpful; but we were grateful for the expression “a
turn of the weathercock,” as it was fresh to us. He further remarked,
apropos of nothing in our conversation, “You might as well try to get
feathers from a fish as make a living in Crowland; and the people are so
stupid, as the saying goes, ‘they’d drown a fish in water.’” Manifestly
he was not in love with the place. He did not even think much of the old
abbey: “It’s very ruinous,” was his expression thereof.
Crowland is a thoroughly old-world village; I know no other that so well
deserves the epithet: its gray-toned cottages, grouped round the decayed
and time-rent fane, save the ruins from utter desolation. Crowland
impressed us as a spot that exists simply because it has existed: like
the abbey, it looks so old that one can hardly imagine it was ever new.
It is--
A world-forgotten village,
Like a soul that steps aside
Into some quiet haven
From the full rush of tide.
A place where poets still may dream,
Where the wheels of Life swing slow;
And over all there hangs the peace
Of centuries ago.
Crowland village, apart from its ruined abbey, is quaint rather than
beautiful; it appeals to the lover of the past perhaps more than to the
lover of the picturesque. We found there a primitive and clean little
inn where we stabled our horses and procured for ourselves a simple, but
sufficient, repast that was served in a tiny parlour. Whilst waiting for
our meal to be prepared, having no guide-book, we consulted our
_Paterson’s Roads_ to see if it gave any particulars of the place, and
this is what we discovered: “Crowland, a place of very remote antiquity,
particularly interesting to the antiquary on account of the ruins of its
once extensive and splendid abbey, and its singular triangular-shaped
bridge, is now reduced to the size of a large village that possesses
little more than the ruins of its former
[Sidenote: _THE ISLE OF CROWLAND_]
splendour. The chief existing remains of the abbey are the skeleton of
the nave of the conventual church, with parts of the south and north
aisles; the latter of which is covered over, pewed, and fitted up as a
parish church. The triangular bridge in the middle of the town may be
looked upon as one of the greatest curiosities in Britain, if not in
Europe; it is of stone, and consists of three pointed arches springing
from as many abutments that unite their groins in the centre....
Crowland being so surrounded by fens is inaccessible, except from the
north and east, in which directions the road is formed by artificial
banks of earth, and from this singular situation it has been, not
inaptly, compared to Venice.” I have again quoted from this old and
famous road-book, which was as familiar to our forefathers as “Bradshaw”
is to us, because it shows the sort of combination of road-book and
guide that the pre-railway traveller was provided with, all England and
Wales being included in one thick volume. Paterson’s accounts of famous
spots and places of interest are not perhaps so learned or long as those
of the modern hand-book, but they are possibly sufficient, and brevity
is an advantage to the tourist who desires to arrive quickly at his
information.
In olden days it would seem that the spot whereon Crowland now stands
was one of the many Fen islands, consisting of comparatively dry and
firm soil that rose above the general level of the moist lowlands, or,
to be more exact, a wilderness of shallow waters--a district described
by Smiles as “an inland sea in winter, and a noxious swamp in summer”;
but so slight is the rise of the land that to the superficial observer
it scarcely seems to rise at all. Here--on this “Isle of Crowland”--as
it was formerly called in company with other similar islands, such as
the better-known “Isle of Ely”--the old monks built their abbey, remote
and fengirt from the outer world, only to be approached at first by
boats, and, in long years after also, by a solitary raised causeway
frequently under water and nearly always unsafe and untravellable in
winter. The problem to me is how ever all the stone required for the
building was secured. Presumably most of it was brought down the Welland
from Stamford; but what a long and laborious task the carrying of it
must have been. Still, the problem sinks into insignificance like that
of Stonehenge, for all authorities on this mysterious monument of
antiquity agree that the nearest spot to Salisbury Plain from which the
igneous rocks that compose the inner circle could come, would be either
Cornwall or North Wales! An effective word-picture of the early
monastery is given in Kingsley’s _Hereward the Wake_ which I take the
liberty to quote, though he describes the building as being chiefly of
timber, but the first historic record declares that it was “firmly built
of stone.” Thus, then, Kingsley writes: “And they rowed away for
Crowland ... and they glided on until they came to the sacred isle, the
most holy sanctuary of St. Guthlac and his monks.... At last they came
to Crowland minster, a vast range of high-peaked buildings founded on
piles of oak and alder driven into the fen, itself built almost entirely
of timber from the Bruneswold; barns, granaries, stables, workshops,
strangers’ hall, fit for the boundless hospitality of Crowland;
infirmary, refectory, dormitory, library, abbot’s lodgings, cloisters;
with the great minster towering up, a steep pile, half wood, half stone,
with narrow round-headed windows, and leaden roofs; and above all the
great wooden tower, from which on high-days chimed out the melody of the
seven famous bells, which had not their like in English land.” So minute
is the detailed description of that which was such a long time off that
one is almost tempted to wonder how Kingsley knew all this.
[Sidenote: _A TRIANGULAR BRIDGE_]
Leaving our little inn we first inspected the exceedingly quaint
triangular bridge that stands in the main thoroughfare--a thoroughfare
without any traffic it appeared to us, nor did we see where any future
traffic was to come from. This structure is stated to be positively
unique. Apart from its uncommon form, it certainly has a curious
appearance to-day, as the roadway below is dry, and the “three-way
bridge,” as it is locally called, has much the meaningless look that a
ship would have stranded far inland. This quaint structure consists of
three high-pitched half arches, at equal distances from each other, that
meet at the top. The way over the bridge is both narrow and steep, so
that manifestly it could only have been intended for pedestrians.
Much good ink has been spilt by antiquaries and archæologists anent the
peculiar form of the bridge, and different theories have been put
forward to solve this enigma in building: some authorities having
declared their belief that it was a mere freak of the monks indulged in
from pure eccentricity; others reason that it was intended to support a
high cross, but surely a bridge would hardly have been built as a
foundation for this? And it is so manifestly a bridge complete in
itself, though novel in design, nor does there appear to me to be room
for the base of an important cross on the apex of the arches where alone
it could come. It is verily an archæological _pons asinorum_. Personally
I find a difficulty in subscribing to either the freak or the cross
theory; indeed, a more reasonable solution of the puzzle presents itself
to me as one who does not look for out-of-the-way causes. It seems
possible, rather should I say highly probable, that when the bridge was
built, in the days before the drainage of the Fens, a stream may have
flowed past here, and it may have been joined by another Y fashion. To
cross these streams where they both met to the three points of dry
ground would entail a triangular bridge, and the monks were equal to the
occasion! The only fault I can find with this theory is that it is so
simple! Shortly after writing this, in looking over an old portfolio of
pictures, I chanced upon a rather crude, but fairly faithful, engraving
of this very bridge. The work was not dated, but I judged it to be of
the late seventeenth or of the early eighteenth century, a pure guess on
my part. However, it is interesting to note that this ancient engraving
showed two streams flowing under the bridge precisely as suggested. I
merely mention the fact, though it proves really nothing, for the
engraver or artist may easily have added the water, imagining that it
ought to be there. Here again the advantage of photography is apparent,
for the lens has no bias, and if it seldom lends itself to the
picturesque, at least it does not invent accessories.
[Sidenote: _A STATUE ASTRAY_]
On the parapet at the foot of the bridge is a mutilated and weather-worn
statue, having apparently a crown on its head and a globe in its hand.
An absurd local tradition declares this to be intended for Cromwell
holding a ball. Why it should be fathered on to the Protector is beyond
my understanding; it is more than probable that it existed centuries
before he was born. Looking sideways at the figure it is noticeably
thin, and was manifestly only intended to be seen from the front. One
may therefore, I think, reasonably conclude that it originally came from
a niche in the abbey, for it is quite out of place on the bridge, and
could never have properly belonged to it. Most probably, judging from
similar old sculptures, it was intended for our Lord, and had place in
the centre of the pediment over the west front of the abbey, a portion
of the building that has now disappeared. Some antiquaries, however,
maintain that it is intended for King Ethelbald, the founder of the
monastery; this would be a plausible enough suggestion but for the fact
that this king is already represented amongst the statues that still
adorn the abbey.
The mouldings, ribs, and vaultings of the arches indicate the date of
the present bridge to be about the middle of the fourteenth century. It
is worthy of note how readily an archæologist may determine the
approximate date of an ancient building by its style, even, if needs be,
by a small portion of its carvings; but what will the archæologists of
centuries hence be able to make of our present jumble of all periods? a
mixture of past forms from which the meaning and true spirit have fled.
Indeed, a certain famous English architect once boasted, I have been
told, that he made such an excellent copy of an Early English building,
even to the working of the stones roughly, in reverent imitation of the
original, that he gave it as his opinion that, in the course of a
century or two, when the new building had become duly time-toned,
weather-stained, and the stone-work crumbled a little here and there, no
future antiquary would be able to distinguish it from a genuine Early
English structure, unless possibly by its better state of preservation.
Alas! the nineteenth century has no specially distinguishing style, save
that of huge hotels and railway stations! Our most successful
ecclesiastical edifices are but copies of various medieval examples. We
can copy better than we can create! A new architectural style worthy of
the century has yet to be invented, and it appears as though--in spite
of much striving after--the century will pass away without such an
achievement.
Then we made our way to the ruined abbey in the reverent spirit of an
ancient pilgrim, although in the further spirit of this luxurious
century our pilgrimage was performed with ease on wheels, and not
laboriously on foot. The most picturesque and interesting part of this
fane of ancient devotion is the beautiful west front, glorious even in
ruin, with its elaborate decorations, its many statues standing, as
erst, each in its niche, its great window, now a mighty void, shaftless
and jambless, and its graceful pointed Gothic doorway below. An
illustration of this portion of the abbey is given with this chapter.
The other portions of the building are of much archæological interest,
but not so statelily picturesque, nor can any drawing in black and white
suggest the wonderful wealth of weather-tinting that the timeworn
masonry has assumed. The summer suns and winter storms of unremembered
years have left their magic traces upon the wonderful west front of this
age-hallowed shrine, tinging it with softest colouring varying with
every inch of surface!
[Sidenote: _RESTORERS OLD AND NEW_]
Within the ancient nave now open to the sky, where grows the lank, rank
grass under foot in place of the smooth inlaid pavement often trod by
sleek abbot, and meek or merry monk, we observed the base of a
Perpendicular pillar round which the earth had been excavated,
apparently to show the foundation, and we noticed that this was composed
of various old carved stones of an earlier period of architecture,
presumably when the abbey was undergoing a medieval restoration or
rebuilding; plainly proving, as is well known, that the builders of the
past did not hold their predecessors’ works so very sacred, and to a
certain extent the modern restorer would be justified in quoting this
fact in extenuation of his doings, or misdoings, “What is sauce for the
goose is sauce for the gander” surely? Only those medieval restorers
sinned so magnificently, and the modern restorer, as a rule, sins so
miserably! From the medieval reconstructor to the restorer of the
Churchwarden era is a vast gulf. It would be an archæological curiosity
and an object lesson in ecclesiastical construction if we could have
preserved for our study and edification a church showing all the varying
periods of architecture, from the crude Saxon and stern Norman to that
of to-day!
Reluctantly we left Crowland’s old ruined abbey that stands alone in
crumbling, dusky majesty, as though solemnly musing over the chances and
changes of its chequered life’s long history. This remote and hoary
pile, surrounded by the wild waste of watery fens, impressed us with an
undefinable feeling of mystery and melancholy--a mystery that had to do
with the past, and a melancholy that had to do with the present. No
other ruin has impressed us quite in the same way, but then Crowland
Abbey has a striking individuality seen from near or afar; it is utterly
unlike any other spot, and from every point of view forms a most
effective picture. Time has fraught its ancient walls with meaning, and
the rare dower of antiquity, the bloom of centuries is gathered over
them all--a bloom that has beautified what man and age have left of the
former hallowed sanctuary. Now a solemn peacefulness broods incumbent
over Crowland’s solitary tower, broken arches, and decaying masonry. No
more, as in the days of old, at evensong when the silent stars come out,
does the belated fisherman stop his skiff awhile by the side of the
inland isle, to listen to the sweet chanting of the monks, mingling with
the organ’s
[Illustration: CROWLAND ABBEY.]
[Sidenote: _CROWLAND ABBEY_]
solemn thunder-tones. The poetry and the romance of the ancient faith
and days have departed, and the prosaic present strikes a purely
pathetic key--of things that have been and are no more! The ancient
abbey
in ruin stands lone in the solitude;
The wild birds sing above it, and the ivy clings around,
And under its poppies its old-time worshippers sleep sound:
Relic of days forgotten, dead form of an _ancient_ faith,
Haunting the light of the present, a vanished Past’s dim wraith!
* * * * *
And the winds wail up from the seaward, and sigh in the long grave grass
A message of weltering tides, and of things that were and must pass.
Reluctantly, as I have said, we left this lonely Fenland fane, a legend
in stone: a dream of Gothic glory in its prime, and a thing of beauty in
decay; and beauty is a more precious possession than glory! Very
beautiful did the ancient ruin look as we took our farewell glance at
it, with the warm sun’s rays touching tenderly its gray-toned walls and
lightening up their century-gathered gloom, whilst the solemn shadows of
pillared recesses and deepset arches lent a mystic glamour to the pile,
as though it held some hidden secrets of the past there, not to be
revealed to modern mortals, all of which aroused our strongest
sympathies, or a feeling close akin thereto--for I know not for certain
whether mere inert matter can really arouse human sympathy, though I
think it can.
This wild and wide Fenland was anciently renowned for its many and
wealthy monasteries. A medieval rhyme has been preserved to us that
relates the traditional reputations these religious establishments
respectively had. Of this rhyme there are two versions, one is as
follows:--
Ramsey, the bounteous of gold and of fee;
Crowland, as courteous as courteous may be;
Spalding the rich, and Peterborough the proud;
Sawtrey, by the way, that poore abbaye,
Gave more alms in one day
Than all they.
The other version runs more fully thus:--
Ramsey, the rich of gold and of fee,
Thorney, the flower of many a fair tree,
Crowland, the courteous of their meat and drink,
Spalding, the gluttons, as all people do think,
Peterborough, the proud, as all men do say:
Sawtrey, by the way, that old abbey,
Gave more alms in one day than all they.
From Crowland we decided to drive some nine and a half miles on to
Spalding, where we proposed to spend the night; or rather the map
decided the matter, for our choice of roads out of Crowland, unless we
went south, was limited to this one; it was a pure case of “Hobson’s
choice,” to Spalding we must go, and thither we went. Mounting the
dog-cart once more we were soon in the open country; our road, like that
of the morning, was level and winding, with the far-reaching fens all
around, that stretched away through greens, yellows, russets, and grays
to a hazy horizon of blue. A short distance on our way by the roadside
we observed a large notice-board, that claimed our
[Sidenote: _A WAYSIDE RECORD_]
attention from its size, so we pulled up the better to examine it, and
found this legend plainly painted thereon:--
1000 Miles
in
1000 Hours,
by Henry Girdlestone,
at the age of 56,
in the year 1844.
As, nowadays, people mostly travel by rail, this record of a past
performance is wasting its information in the wilderness for want of
readers, so I have been tempted to repeat the account of Mr. Henry
Girdlestone’s feat here.
Our road was an uneventful one; the scenery it provided was somewhat
monotonous, but there was a certain inexplicable fascination about its
monotony as there is in that of the sea. It had the peculiar quality of
being monotonous without being wearisome. As in our drive to Crowland,
what especially struck us in our drive therefrom was the sense of
silence, space, and solitude. Spread out around us were leagues upon
leagues of level land, like a petrified sea, that melted away
imperceptibly into a palpitating blueness in which all things became
blended, indistinct, or wholly lost. Leagues of grass lands and marshes,
splashed here and there with vivid colour, and enlivened ever and again
by the silvery gleam of still, or the sunlit sparkle of wind-stirred
water; its flatness accentuated, now and again, by a solitary uprising
poplar, or a lonely, lofty windmill--built high to catch every
wind--and these served to emphasise the general solitude: the
prevailing silence was made the more striking by the infrequent peevish
cry of some stray bird that seemed strangely loud upon the quiet air.
The scenery could not be called picturesque, yet it possessed the rarer
quality of quaintness, and it therefore interested us. In a manner it
was beautiful on account of its colour, and the sky-scape overhead was
grand because so wide, whilst it flooded the vast breadth of unshaded
land with a wealth of light. After all, let mountain lovers say what
they will, a flat land has its charms; it may not be “sweetly pretty,”
but it is blessed with an abundance of light, and light begets
cheerfulness; and its cloud-scapes, sunrises, and sunsets, that compel
you to notice them, are a revelation in themselves. A Dutch artist once
told me, when I was pointing out to him what I considered the paintable
qualities of the South Downs, that he honestly considered hills and
mountains a fraud, as they hid so much of the sky, which, to him,
appeared infinitely more beautiful and changeful both in form and
colour. “There is a fashion in scenery,” said he; “mountain lands have
been fortunate in their poets and writers; some day a poet or great
writer may arise who will sing or describe for us the little-heeded
beauties of the lowlands, and the hills will go out of fashion. The
public simply admire what they are told to admire.” If Ruskin had only
been born in the lowlands of Lincolnshire, then might we have had some
chapters in his works enlarging upon their peculiar beauties! Truly
Tennyson was born in Lincolnshire, but he was born in the Wolds
surrounded by woods and hills. Even so, Tennyson has not done for the
Wolds what Scott has done for the Scotch Highlands; the scenery of the
Wolds has its special charms, but it is no tourist-haunted land, yet
none the less beautiful on that account, and selfishly I am thankful
that there are such spacious beauty spots still left to us in England
unknown to, and unregarded by, the cheap-tripper. Let us hope that no
popular guide-book will be written about certain districts to needlessly
call his attention to them.
[Sidenote: _A NOVEL EXPERIENCE_]
This corner of England that we were traversing has an unfamiliar aspect
to the average Englishman; the buildings and people therein truly are
English, intensely English, but, these apart, the country looks strange
and foreign. It is a novel experience to drive for miles along an
embanked road looking down upon all the landscape, just as it is equally
curious, on the other hand, to drive along a road below an embanked
river! Keen and fresh came the breezes to us from over the mighty fens,
for they were unrestrained even by a hedge; pleasantly refreshing and
scented were they with the cool odours of marsh flowers, plants, and
reeds. The fields being divided by dykes and ditches, in place of
hedges, the landscape gained in breadth, for the sweep of the eye was
not continually arrested by the bounding hedges that but too often cut
up the prospect of the English country-side, chess-board fashion.
At one spot low down to the right of our way was a swampy bit of
ground, half land, half water, if anything more water than land; here
tall reeds were bending and tossing about before the wild wind, and the
pools of water were stirred by mimic waves, and in the heart of all this
was a notice-board inscribed “Trespassers will be prosecuted”! Somehow
this simple and familiar warning in such a position brought to mind the
comic side of life and aroused much merriment, for who in the wide world
would wish to trespass there? We were in such good humour with ourselves
and all things that we were easily amused: our superabundance of health
begot a mirthful spirit readily provoked and difficult to damp. I verily
believe that when trifles went wrong on the journey, which by the way
they very seldom did, then we were the merriest, as though to show that
nothing could depress us. I remember on a former tour that we got caught
in a heavy storm of rain when crossing an open moor; the storm came up
suddenly from behind and took us quite by surprise, so that we got
pretty well wet before we could get our mackintoshes out; shelter was
there none, and the result was that, after a couple of hours’ driving
along an exposed road, we arrived at a little country inn positively
drenched through to the skin, the water running off the dogcart in
streams, and all things damp and dripping, yet in spite of our sorry
plight we felt “as jolly as a sandboy,” and could not restrain our
laughter at the dismal picture we presented as we drove into the
stable-yard; indeed, we treated the matter as a huge joke, and I thought
to myself, “Now if only Charles Keene were here to sketch us arriving
thus, what an excellent subject we should make for a _Punch_ picture
with the legend below ‘The pleasures of a driving tour!’” So excellent
did the joke appear to us that we had changed our saturated clothing and
put on dry things, and had warmed ourselves before a roaring wood fire
which the kind-hearted landlady had lighted for us, and had further
refreshed ourselves with the best the house could provide, before our
merry spirits quieted down. So it took some time to quiet them down!
[Sidenote: _A LEANING TOWER_]
Now this digression has taken us to the village of Cowbit, a dreary,
forsaken-looking place, desolate enough, one would imagine, to disgust
even a recluse. Here we noticed the dilapidated church tower was leaning
very much on one side, owing doubtless to the uncertain foundation
afforded by the marshy soil; indeed, it leaned over to such an extent as
to suggest toppling down altogether before long, so much so that it gave
us the unpleasant feeling that it might untowardly collapse when we were
there. It may be that the tower will stand thus for years; all the same,
did I worship in that fane I feel sure I should ever be thinking rather
about the stability of the fabric than of the prayers or of the sermon!
Leaving this forsaken spot--where we saw neither man, woman, nor child,
not even a stray dog or odd chicken about to lessen its forlorn look--a
short way ahead we discovered that our way was blocked by a broken-down
traction engine, a hideous black iron monster of large proportions,
that stood helplessly right in the very centre of the road, so that it
was extremely doubtful if there were sufficient room left for us to pass
by; and if we failed to do this and our wheels went over the edge of the
embankment we were on, which was fenceless on both sides, the dog-cart
and horses might very probably follow suit. Some men were busily
hammering and tinkering at the engine; they said that she had broken
down an hour ago, and they had not been able to get her to move since,
but fortunately there had been no traffic coming along, and we were the
first party to arrive on the scene. All of which was very entertaining
and informative, but not very helpful as to how we were to proceed. Did
they think we could possibly get by? Well, they did not know, they
hardly thought so; but they would measure the width of our carriage and
the width of the roadway left. This being duly done, it was discovered
that there was just room, but not even the proverbial inch to spare.
Thereupon we naturally concluded that the margin for safety was
insufficient! Here was a pleasant predicament to be in! We could not
well go back; on the other hand the men confessed that they had no idea
when they would be able “to get the thing to work again.” The steam was
up, but when turned on the iron monster snorted, creaked, and groaned,
but resolutely refused to budge. “Something has given way, and we be
trying to mend it” was the only consolation offered us, beyond the fact
that they had sent a man over to Spalding for help, but when he would
return they
[Sidenote: _A DILEMMA_]
did not know; “It were certainly bad luck that we should have been right
in the middle of the road when she gave out, but you see we never
expected anything of the kind.” It was an unfortunate position of
affairs; if we decided to attempt to drive by, and our horses shied or
swerved ever so little in the attempt, a serious accident was almost a
certainty; so, after considering the matter well, a happy, if
troublesome, way out of the difficulty occurred to us: this was to
unharness both horses and lead them past the obstructing engine, then to
wheel the dog-cart after as best we could. Just as we had decided to do
this, the monster gave another spasmodic snort or two and began to move
in a jerky fashion, only to break down again, then the men set to work
once more a-hammering. How long would this go on? we wondered. However,
the few yards that the engine had managed to move was to one side, which
gave us a little more room to pass, whereupon, acting under a sudden
impulse, we whipped the horses up, and taking tight hold of the reins
dashed safely by, but it was “a touch and go” affair; our horses did
swerve a trifle, and we just missed bringing our tour to a conclusion on
the spot, but “all’s well that ends well,” and “a miss is as good as a
mile!”
After this little episode we had a peaceful progress on to Spalding
undisturbed by further adventure. The approach to this essentially
old-world-looking town from the Crowland direction alongside the river
Welland--which is here embanked and made to run straight, canal fashion,
and has shady trees and grassy margins on either side--is exceedingly
Dutch-like and very pleasant. Few English towns have so attractive an
approach; it gave us a favourable impression of the place at once--so
imperceptibly the country road became the town street, first the trees,
then the houses. Spalding is a place that seems more of a natural
growth, an integral part of the scenery, so in harmony is it therewith,
rather than a conglomeration of houses built merely for man’s
convenience. Such charmingly old-fashioned, prosperous, but delightfully
unprogressive towns are not to be met with every day, when the ambition
of most places appears to be more or less a second-hand copy of London;
and at a sacrifice of all individuality they strive after this
undesirable ideal. How refreshing is a little originality in this world,
that grows more sadly commonplace and colourless year by year! Alas! we
live in an age of civilised uniformity, an age that has given us
railways and ironclads in far-off Japan, and tramway lines and French
_tables d’hôte_ in the very heart of ancient Egypt! Soon the only ground
the unconventional traveller will have left to him will be the more
remote spots of rural England! It is far more primitive and picturesque
to-day than rural new America with its up-to-date villages lighted with
electricity, and stores provided with all the latest novelties of
Chicago or New York! Where will the next-century mortal find the rest
and repose of the past?
Driving into Spalding we noticed the ancient hostelry of the “White
Hart” facing the market
[Sidenote: “_HARPER YE HOST_”]
square, a hostelry that was ancient when the railways still were young,
and on the lamp that projected over the centre of this old house we
further noticed the quaint legend “Harper ye Host,” a conceit that
pleased us much. “A host must surely be one of the right sort thus to
proclaim himself,” we reasoned, “we will place ourselves under his
care”; so without more ado we drove beneath the archway into the
courtyard, and confidently handed our horses over to the ready ostler’s
charge, and sought for ourselves entertainment and shelter beneath the
sign of the “White Hart.”