[Illustration: 0175]
|John Foster quaintly says that "the characteristic of genius is, that
it can light its own fire:" he might have added that it can provide its
own fuel. Mere talent is mainly dependent upon adventitious aids and
favourable circumstances, whilst genius can work with the clumsiest
tools and the most intractable materials. The magnificent scenery of
Switzerland and the Scotch Highlands has produced no artist or poet of
the first rank. The featureless landscape of Holland or of East
Anglia sufficed for Cuyp or Hobbema, or Ruysdael, for Gainsborough
or Constable, or Old: Crome. The quiet loveliness of Warwickshire was
enough for Shakspere's genius. Milton had seen the glories of the Alps
and Apennines, but Buckinghamshire furnished the subject-matter of
_L'Allegro_ and _Il Penseroso_. The dreary flats of Bedfordshire and
Huntingdonshire cease to be dull and prosaic in Cowper s verse.
The themes of Tennyson's earlier poems were drawn from the fens and
meres and melancholy swamps of Lincolnshire. The truth is, that the eye
makes its own pictures, and sees just what it has the power of seeing.
"O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does nature live:
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the Earth--
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element."*
* Coleridge's Sybilline Leaves.
[Illustration: 0176]
It must, however, be confessed that it would be difficult at the present
day to find poetry or beauty in the Fen country. The meres have been
drained, the swamps have been reclaimed. The profusion of aquatic plants
and wild-fowl has disappeared. Whittlesea Mere and Ramsey-Mere have been
brought under the plough. Even the picturesque old windmills have given
place to the hideous chimney-shafts of pumping stations worked by steam.
We may almost parody the famous chapter of Olaus Magnus on "Snakes in
Iceland," and say--there are no fens in the fen country. If we would
know what the fens were once like, we must, read some of Tennyson's
earlier poems, or better still perhaps, one of Kingsley's prose Idylls:
"A certain sadness is pardonable to one who watches the destruction of a
grand natural phenomenon, even though its destruction bring blessings to
the human race. Reason and conscience tell us, that it is right and good
that the Great Fen should have become, instead of a waste and howling
wilderness, a garden of the Lord, where
'All the land in flowery squares,
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind,
Smell of the coming summer.'
And yet the fancy may linger, without blame, over the shining meres,
the golden reed-beds, the countless water-fowl, the strange and gaudy
insects, the wild nature, the mystery, the majesty--for mystery and
majesty there were--which haunted the deep fens for many a hundred
years. Little thinks the Scotsman, whirled down by the Great Northern
Railway from Peterborough to Huntingdon, what a grand place, even twenty
years ago, was that Holme and Whittlesea which is now but a black,
unsightly, steaming flat, from which the meres and reed-beds of the old
world are gone, while the corn and roots of the new world have not as
yet taken their place.
[Illustration: 0177]
"But grand enough it was, that black ugly place, when backed by Caistor
Hanglands and Holme Wood, and the patches of the primeval forest; while
dark-green alders, and pale-green reeds, stretched for miles round the
broad lagoon, where the coot clanked, and the bittern boomed, and the
sedge-bird, not content with its own sweet song, mocked the notes of all
the birds around; while high overhead hung motionless hawk beyond hawk,
buzzard beyond buzzard, kite beyond kite, as far as the eye could see.
Far off, upon the silver mere, would rise a puff of smoke from a punt,
invisible from its flatness and its white paint. Then down the wind came
the boom of the great stanchion-gun; and after that sound another sound,
louder as it neared; a cry as of all the bells of Cambridge, and all
the hounds of Cottesmore; and overhead rushed and whirled the skein of
terrified wildfowl, screaming, piping, clacking, croaking, filling the
air with the hoarse rattle of their wings, while clear above all sounded
the wild whistle of the curlew, and the trumpet note of the great wild
swan.
[Illustration: 9178]
"They are all gone now. No longer do the ruffs trample the sedge into a
hard floor in their fighting-rings, while the sober reeves stand round
admiring the tournament of their lovers, gay with ears and tippets,
no two of them alike. Gone are ruffs and reeves, spoonbills, bitterns,
avosets; the very snipe, one hears, disdains to breed. Gone, too, not
only from Whittlesea but from the whole world, is that most exquisite
of English butterflies, _Lycaena dispar_--the great copper; and many a
curious insect more. Ah, well, at least we shall have wheat and mutton
instead, and no more typhus and ague; and, it is to be hoped, no more
brandy-drinking and opium-eating; and children will live and not die.
For it was a hard place to live in, the old Fen; a place wherein one
heard of 'unexampled instances of longevity,' for the same reason that
one hears of them in savage tribes--that few lived to old age at all,
save those iron constitutions which nothing could break down." *
* Prose Idylls, New and Old, by Rev. Charles Kingsley.
One of the most characteristic walks in the Fen country is that from
Peakirk (St. Pega Kirk), a station on the Peterborough and Spalding
line, to Crowland. The road runs along the top of a high bank, raised so
as to be above the reach of the inundations. On either hand a flat and
dreary plain stretches to the horizon. It is intersected by ditches
filled with black stagnant water and fringed by aquatic plants, amongst
which the yellow iris is prominent. Here and there a farm-house,
approached by an avenue of pollard-willows, and surrounded by a few
acres of well-cultivated land, breaks in upon the monotony of the scene.
Elsewhere the vegetation is rank and coarse but abundant, upon which
droves of horses and cattle thrive. A perpetual chorus of croaking from
innumerable frogs in the marshes accompanies the pedestrian on his way,
to which the sweet notes of the sedge-warbler and other small birds form
an exquisite accompaniment.
[Illustration: 0180]
In the winter, when the fens are flooded and frozen over, the scene is
one of rare interest and excitement. The clear sharp ring of the skates
on the ice, the merry shouts of the skaters, the stir and bustle of a
district usually so dull and stagnant, the feats of agility and skill
displayed by a peasantry to skate a mile in two minutes, but without
success, though he is said to have only exceeded the two minutes by two
seconds.
[Illustration: 8181]
The ordinary pace of a fast skater is one mile in three and a half
or four minutes." He who is so fortunate as to see one of the great
skating-revels of these eastern counties under the glowing light of
a sunrise or a sunset will not easily forget it--for the sunrises and
sunsets of the Fen country are of incomparable splendour. It is an error
to suppose that the dry pure atmosphere of Southern Europe is favourable
to these magnificent effects of colour. Some of the finest sunsets I
have ever seen have been when walking westward along Oxford Street on a
frosty evening. The clouds of smoke and mist hanging over the great city
have become suffused with a glory of crimson and purple and amber with
which no Italian sky can compare. So in the Fen country, the clouds and
fogs driven inland from the sea, and the humid vapours exhaled from the
soil, glow with all imaginable hues in the light of the setting sun. The
cold colourless landscape reflects the radiance and is tinged with the
colours of the sky; the skaters as they glide swiftly past through the
golden haze seem like actors in some fairy spectacle.
[Illustration: 0182]
Before the reclamation of the fens, the swamps and meres which covered
so large a portion of the soil were the haunt of innumerable wild fowl,
which were the source of considerable profit to the fensmen. Of late
years their numbers have greatly diminished, but the London market is
still largely supplied from this district. Flat-bottomed boats screened
by reeds so as to resemble floating islands are fitted with heavy
duck-guns, from a single discharge of which dozens of birds sometimes
fall. One of the best duck-decoys remaining in East Anglia lies at a
short distance from the road midway between Peakirk and Crowland. A
small mere a few acres in extent forms the scene of operations. From
this run eight ditches, or "pipes," as they are locally called, ten
or twelve feet wide at the entrance, and about a hundred feet long,
diminishing to a narrow gutter at the end. They curve round so that only
a small part of the whole is visible from any point. They are inclosed
by walls of matted reeds and roofed over by nets. Tame ducks are trained
to lead the way into the mouths of the pipes, and are followed by
the wild fowl. Little dogs, of a white or red colour, enter the pipes
through holes made in the reed screens, gambol about inside for a minute
or two, come out again, and again show themselves a little higher up
the pipe. The wild fowl, though easily alarmed, are very curious and
inquisitive. They swim or fly forward to investigate this strange
phenomenon till they have gone too far to recede, when the net closes
upon them, and the whole flock is taken.
[Illustration: 0183]
In the days of yore, when this district resembled a great lake studded
with numerous islands fringed with willow groves, it was the seat
of numerous ecclesiastical establishments of great wealth and
influence--Peterborough, Crowland, Ely, Thorney, Spalding, Ramsey and
others. The insulated sites were favourable to the seclusion of the
cloister, the patches of land were exceedingly fertile, and the water
abounded with fish and wild fowl. On one of these Fen islands rose the
great Abbey of Crowland, the ruins of which come into view some miles
before we reach it. Its foundation goes back to Saxon times, and it was
repeatedly sacked by the Danes. Turketul, grandson of King Alfred, who
through four successive reigns had rendered important services to the
nation by his valour in the field and his wisdom in counsel, returning
from a journey to the North, found the abbey a ruin. Of the once
flourishing community only three monks remained to tell the story of
the massacre of their brethren and the destruction of their abbey by
the invaders. They accommodated their illustrious visitor to the best
of their ability amongst the fire-scathed walls of the church, and
entreated his intercession with the king for assistance. The interview
made a deep impression on his mind, and, reaching home, he astonished
his royal master by avowing his intention to become a monk. Accordingly
he caused proclamation to be made by public crier that he was anxious
to discharge his debts, and if he had wronged any man would restore
fourfold. Resigning all his offices, Turketul repaired to the Fens,
devoted himself to the rebuilding of the abbey and the restoration of
its fallen fortunes, became abbot, and there spent the remainder of his
days.
[Illustration: 9184]
A curious structure, known as Crowland Bridge, which stands in the
centre of the town, has greatly perplexed archaeologists, and given rise
to various legends. It consists of three semi-arches whose bases stand
equi-dis-tant from each other in the circumference of a circle and unite
in the centre. At the foot of one of the arches is a mutilated statue,
apparently holding an orb in the right hand. Local tradition declares
that three rivers ran through the three arches into an immense pit dug
to receive them, and that the statue represents Oliver Cromwell with a
penny roll in his hand! The most probable explanation of the remarkable
structure is that it was a high cross built to form a trysting-place for
the fens-men, who, when the Fens were flooded, might bring hither their
produce for sale in boats, and that the figure is St. Guthlac, the
founder and patron of the abbey.
If East Anglia possesses little natural beauty, it is rich in historical
associations. Reference has already been made to the many noble ruins
of ancient ecclesiastical buildings throughout the Fen country. Their
traditional reputation has been handed down in an old rhyming legend:
"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 men 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."
[Illustration: 0185]
It maybe doubted whether in any part of the world four such cathedrals
can be found in the same compass as Lincoln, Peterborough, Ely, and
Norwich. And it is certain that with the single and doubtful exception
of Oxford, no such magnificent collection of collegiate edifices exists
as those of Cambridge. "That long street which, beginning from the
Trumpington Road, skirts the magnificent Fitzwilliam Museum and the Pitt
Press; which passes by ancient Peterhouse and quaint St. Catherine on
one side; which is there known as King's Road and fronts the glories of
King's College, the Senate House, the Library, and Caius College; which
then in a darkening and narrow street, almost a very gorge, skirts the
old historic gateways of Trinity and St. John's, and afterwards emerges
past the chapel which is the latest architectural glory of Cambridge,
opposite the venerable round church and near the new buildings of the
Union--certainly in its long broken wavering line, this street may enter
into formidable competition with the High Street of Oxford or any of the
streets of the world.
[Illustration: 0186]
There are, moreover, several distinct features in which Cambridge is
unsurpassable. The wide silent old court of Trinity, with its babbling
fountain; the glorious structure of King's College; above all, that
exquisite scenery, a composition made up of many varying beauties known
as the "backs of the colleges are separate features to which Oxford can
hardly offer a parallel. As an Oxford poet has said:--
"Ah me! were ever river banks so fair,
Gardens so fit for nightingales as these?
Were ever haunts so meet for summer breeze,
Or pensive walk in evening's golden air?
Was ever town so rich in court and tower
To woo and win stray moonlight every hour?" *
* From Oxford and Cambridge, their Memories and
Associations. Religious Tract Society.
[Illustration: 0188]
Among the cities of East Anglia, Norwich claims special mention. Though
a local couplet declares that--
"Caistor was a city when Norwich was none.
And Norwich was builded with Caistor stone."
[Illustration: 8189]
Yet the _parvenu_ upstart goes back to the time of the Roman occupation
of the island. It was the capital of the Saxon kingdom of East Anglia,
and for many centuries afterwards it held a prominent place in our
history. So early as the reign of Edward III. it was one of the great
centres of our manufacturing industry; the Flemish settlers having
here introduced or developed the woollen trade. In pre-reformation days
it was a stronghold of the Wyckliffites or Lollards, many of whom here
sealed their testimony with their blood. In 1531, Thomas Bilney was
added to the list of worthies who make up the Norwich Martyrology.
Probably no other provincial town in England has given so many eminent
names to the literature, science, and art of our country, from
Sir Thomas Browne, author of the _Religio Medici_, down to Harriet
Martineau. Even apart from these interesting associations, Norwich
itself deserves and will well repay a visit.
[Illustration: 9189]
Surrounded by wooded slopes and pleasant meadows and winding streams,
its streets full of quaint picturesque architecture, and dominated by
its noble castle and cathedral, few or none of our English cities offer
a more pleasing combination of urban and rural beauty.
The tourist in search of the picturesque in East Anglia will do well to
include Yarmouth among his wanderings.
Its surroundings indeed are as flat and uninteresting as possible. The
readers of David Copperfield will remember his description: "As we drew
a little nearer and saw the whole adjacent prospect lying in a straight
line under the sky, I hinted to Peggotty that a mound or so might have
improved it; and also that if the land had been a little more separated
from the sea, and that the town and the tide had not been quite so mixed
up like toast and water, it would have been nicer. But Peggotty said
with greater emphasis than usual, that we must take things as we found
them; and that for her part she was proud to call herself a Yarmouth
Bloater."
[Illustration: 0190]
But the town is a curious combination of English bustle and Dutch
quaintness. Its quay reminds the traveller of the Boomptjies of
Rotterdam; its "rows," only a few feet wide, with a narrow riband of
sky overhead, recall the narrow streets of Genoa; its vast fleet of
herring-boats discharging their silvery "harvest of the sea" at the
wharves, offer a spectacle almost unique in the world. Unlike Norwich
and many other neighbouring towns, Yarmouth has been the scene of no
important event in our history, nor has it contributed any illustrious
name to our list of worthies. A stained glass window in the parish
church, however, perpetuates the earthly memory of one whom Scripture
declares shall be "had in everlasting remembrance"--Sarah Martin, the
prison visitor. She was a poor dressmaker, without wealth or social
position, earning with difficulty a scanty subsistence by her needle,
yet doing a work comparable to that of John Howard or of Elizabeth
Fry. The great lesson of her life has been admirably inculcated by an
eloquent American preacher:
[Illustration: 8191]
"Here, on a lowly bed, in an English village by the sea,--fades out the
earthly life of one of God's humblest but noblest servants. Worn with
the patient care of deserted prisoners and malefactors in the town gaol
for twenty-four years of unthanked service, earning her bread with
her hands, and putting songs of worship on the lips of these penitent
criminals,--Bible and Prayer-book in his feeble hand, saying, at the
end, 'I have been the happiest of men, yet I feel that death will be
gain to me, through Christ who died for me.'
[Illustration: 9191]
"Blessed be God for the manifold features of triumphant faith!--that He
suffers His children to walk toward Him through ways so various in their
outward look--Sarah Martin; from her cottage bed, Earl Spencer from his
gorgeous couch, little children in their innocence, unpretending women
in the quiet ministrations of faithful love, strong and useful and
honoured men, whom suffering households and institutions and churches
mourn. All bending their faces towards the Everlasting Light, in one
faith, one cheering hope, called by one Lord, who has overcome the
world, and dieth no more! The sun sets; the autumn fades; life hastens
with us all. But we stand yet in our Master's vineyard. All the days of
our appointed time let us labour righteously, and pray and wait, till
our change come, that we may change only from virtue to virtue, from
faith to faith, and thus from glory to glory!"
[Illustration: 0192]
[Illustration: 0194]