ON BARNET BATTLE-FIELD
In England, as elsewhere, every historic spot is occupied; and of course
it sometimes happens, at such a spot, that its association is marred and
its sentiment almost destroyed by the presence of the persons and the
interests of to-day. The visitor to such places must carry with him not
only knowledge and sensibility but imagination and patience. He will not
find the way strewn with roses nor the atmosphere of poetry ready-made
for his enjoyment. That atmosphere, indeed, for the most
part--especially in the cities--he must himself supply. Relics do not
robe themselves for exhibition. The Past is utterly indifferent to its
worshippers. All manner of little obstacles, too, will arise before the
pilgrim, to thwart him in his search. The mental strain and
bewilderment, the inevitable physical weariness, the soporific influence
of the climate, the tumult of the streets, the frequent and
disheartening spectacle of poverty, squalor, and vice, the capricious
and untimely rain, the inconvenience of long distances, the ill-timed
arrival and consequent disappointment, the occasional nervous sense of
loneliness and insecurity, the inappropriate boor, the ignorant,
garrulous porter, the extortionate cabman, and the jeering
bystander--all these must be regarded with resolute indifference by him
who would ramble, pleasantly and profitably, in the footprints of
English history. Everything depends, in other words, upon the eyes with
which you observe and the spirit which you impart. Never was a keener
truth uttered than in the couplet of Wordsworth--
"Minds that have nothing to confer
Find little to perceive."
To the philosophic stranger, however, even this prosaic occupancy of
historic places is not without its pleasurable, because humorous,
significance. Such an observer in England will sometimes be amused as
well as impressed by a sudden sense of the singular incidental position
into which--partly through the lapse of years, and partly through a
peculiarity of national character--the scenes of famous events, not to
say the events themselves, have gradually drifted. I thought of this one
night, when, in Whitehall Gardens, I was looking at the statue of James
the Second, and a courteous policeman came up and silently turned the
light of his bull's-eye upon the inscription. A scene of more
incongruous elements, or one suggestive of a more serio-comic contrast,
could not be imagined. I thought of it again when standing on the
village green near Barnet, and viewing, amid surroundings both pastoral
and ludicrous, the column which there commemorates the defeat and death
of the great Earl of Warwick, and, consequently, the final triumph of
the Grown over the last of the Barons of England.
It was toward the close of a cool summer day, and of a long drive
through the beautiful hedgerows of sweet and verdurous Middlesex, that I
came to the villages of Barnet and Hadley, and went over the field of
King Edward's victory,--that fatal glorious field, on which Gloster
showed such resolute valour, and where Neville, supreme and magnificent
in disaster, fought on foot, to make sure that himself might go down in
the stormy death of all his hopes. More than four hundred years have
drifted by since that misty April morning when the star of Warwick was
quenched in blood, and ten thousand men were slaughtered to end the
strife between the Barons and the Crown; yet the results of that
conflict are living facts in the government of England now, and in the
fortunes of her inhabitants. If you were unaware of the solid simplicity
and proud reticence of the English character,--leading it to merge all
its shining deeds in one continuous fabric of achievement, like jewels
set in a cloth of gold,--you might expect to find this spot adorned with
a structure of more than common splendour. What you actually do find
there is a plain monument, standing in the middle of a common, at the
junction of several roads,--the chief of which are those leading to
Hatfield and St. Albans, in Hertfordshire,--and on one side of this
column you may read, in letters of faded black, the comprehensive
statement that "Here was fought the famous battle between Edward the
Fourth and the Earl of Warwick, April 14th, anno 1471, in which the Earl
was defeated and slain."[1]
[1] The words "stick no bills" have been intrusively added, just below
this inscription.
Illustration: "Column on Barnet Battle-Field."
In my reverie, standing at the foot of this humble, weather-stained
monument, I saw the long range of Barnet hills, mantled with grass and
flowers and with the golden haze of a morning in spring, swarming with
gorgeous horsemen and glittering with spears and banners; and I heard
the vengeful clash of arms, the horrible neighing of maddened steeds,
the furious shouts of onset, and all the nameless cries and groans of
battle, commingled in a thrilling yet hideous din. Here rode King
Edward, intrepid, handsome, and stalwart, with his proud, cruel smile
and his long, yellow hair. There Warwick swung his great two-handed
sword, and mowed his foes like grain. And there the fiery form of
Richard, splendid in burnished steel, darted like the scorpion, dealing
death at every blow; till at last, in fatal mischance, the sad star of
Oxford, assailed by its own friends, was swept out of the field, and the
fight drove, raging, into the valleys of Hadley. How strangely, though,
did this fancied picture contrast with the actual scene before me! At a
little distance, all around the village green, the peaceful, embowered
cottages kept their sentinel watch. Over the careless, straggling grass
went the shadow of the passing cloud. Not a sound was heard, save the
rustle of leaves and the low laughter of some little children, playing
near the monument. Close by and at rest was a flock of geese, couched
upon the cool earth, and, as their custom is, supremely contented with
themselves and all the world.
And at the foot of the column, stretched out at his full length, in
tattered garments that scarcely covered his nakedness, reposed the
British labourer, fast asleep upon the sod. No more Wars of the Roses
now; but calm retirement, smiling plenty, cool western winds, and sleep
and peace--
"With a red rose and a white rose
Leaning, nodding at the wall."
Illustration: "Farm-house."