A DROUGHT--ANCIENT GARRISON OF THE ENTRENCHMENT--TRADITIONS OF FOREST--
CURIOUS PONDS--A MIRAGE.
Once now and then in the cycle of the years there comes a summer which
to the hills is almost like a fever to the blood, wasting and drying up
with its heat the green things upon which animal life depends, so that
drought and famine go hand in hand. The days go by and grow to weeks,
the weeks lengthen to months, and still no rain. The sun pours down his
burning rays, which become hotter as the season advances; the sky is
blue and beautiful over the hills--beautiful, but pitiless to the
bleating flocks beneath. The breeze comes up from the south, bringing
with it white clouds sailing at an immense height, with openings between
like azure lakes or aerial Mediterraneans landlocked by banks of vapour.
These, if you watch them from the rampart, slowly dissolve; fragments
break away from the mass as the edges of the polar glaciers slip off the
ice-cliff into the sea, only these are noiseless. The fragment detached
grows visibly thinner and more translucent, its margin stretching out in
an uneven fringe: the process is almost exactly like the unravelling of
a spotless garment, the threads wavering and twisting as they are
carried along by the current, diminishing till they fade and are lost in
the ocean of blue. This breaking of the clouds is commonly seen in
weather that promises to be fine. From the brow here, you may note a
solitary cloud just risen above the horizon; it floats slowly towards
us; presently it divides into several parts; these, again, fall away in
jagged, irregular pieces like flecks of foam. By the time it has
reached the zenith these flecks have lengthened out, and shortly
afterwards the cloud has entirely melted and is gone. The delicate hue,
the contrast of the fleecy white with the deepest azure, the
ever-changing form, the light shining through the gauzy texture, the
gentle dreamy motion, lend these clouds an exquisite beauty.
After a while the faint breeze increases, but changes in character; it
blows steadily, and the `sish sish' of the bennets as it rushes through
them becomes incessant. A sense of oppression weighs on the chest--in
the midst of the wind, on the verge of the hill, you sigh for a breath
of air. This is not air: it is simply heat in motion. It is like the
simoom of the desert--producing a feeling of intense weariness.
Previously the distant ridges of the downs were shaded by a dim haze
hovering over them, toning the rolling curves and softening the bolder
bluffs. Now they become distinct; each line is drawn clearly and stands
out; the definition is like that which occurs before rain, only without
the illusion of nearness.
But the hot wind blows and the rain does not come: the sky is open and
free from clouds, less blue perhaps, but harder in tint. The nights are
bright and clear and warm; you may sit here on the turf till midnight
and find no dew, and still feel the languid, enervating influence of the
hot blast. This goes in time, and is succeeded by heavy morning mists
hanging like a cloak over the hills and filling up the hollows. They
roll away as the day advances, and there is the sun bright as ever in
the midst of the cloudless sky. The shepherds say the mists carry away
the rain; certainly it does not come.
Every now and then promising signs exhibit themselves. A black bank of
vapour receives the setting sun, and in the east huge mountainous clouds
with beetling precipices and caverns, in which surely the thunder lurks,
swell and roll upwards in the hush of the evening. The farmer unrolls
his canvas over the new-made hayrick, which is not yet thatched,
thinking that a torrent will descend in the night; but no, the morrow is
the same. It is a peculiarity of our usually changeable climate that
when once the weather has become thoroughly settled either to dry or
wet, no signs of alteration are of any value, true as they may be at
other times.
So the heat continues and the drought increases. The `land-springs'
breaking out by the sides of the fields have long since disappeared; the
true springs run feebly as the stores of water in the interior of the
earth gradually grow less. Great cracks open in the clay of the meadows
down below in the vale--rifts, wide and deep, into which you may thrust
your walking-stick to the handle. Up here on the hills the turf grows
hard and inelastic; it loses that `springy' feel under the foot which
makes it so pleasant to walk upon. The grass becomes dull in tint and
touches like wire--all the sap dried from it, and nothing but fibre
left. Beneath the chalk is moistureless, and nothing can grow on it.
The byroads and paths made with the chalk or `rubble' glare in the
sunlight, and the flints scattered so thickly about the ploughed fields
seem to radiate heat. All things that should look green are brown and
dusty; even the leaves on the elms seem dusty. The wheat only
flourishes, tall and strong--deep tinted yellow here, a ruddy, golden
bronze yonder, with ears full and heavy, rich and glorious to gaze upon.
Insects multiply and replenish the earth after their fashion
exceedingly; the spiders are busy as may be, not only those that watch
from their webs lying in wait, but those that chase their prey through
the grass as dogs do game.
But under the beautiful sky and the glorious sun there rises up a
pitiful cry the livelong day: it is the quavering bleat of the sheep as
their strength slowly ebbs out of them for the lack of food. Green
crops and roots fail, the aftermath in the meadows beneath will not
grow, week after week `keep' becomes scarcer and more expensive, and
there is, in fact, a famine. Of all animals a starved sheep is the most
wretched to contemplate, not only because of the angularity of outline,
and the cavernous depressions where fat and flesh should be, but because
the associations of many generations have given the sheep a peculiar
claim upon humanity. They hang entirely on human help. They watch for
the shepherd as though he were their father; and when he comes he can do
no good, so that there is no more painful spectacle than a fold during a
drought upon the hills.
Once upon a time, passing on foot for a distance of some twenty-five
miles across these hills and grassy uplands, I could not help comparing
the scene to what travellers tell us of desert lands and foreign
famines. The whole of that long summer's day, as I hastened southwards,
eager for the beach and the scent of the sea, I passed flocks of dying
sheep: in the hollows by the way their skeletons were here and there to
be seen, the gaunt ribs protruding upwards in the horrible manner that
the ribs of dead creatures do. Crowds of flies buzzed in the air. Upon
the hurdles perched the crow, bold with over-feasting, and hardly
turning to look at me, waiting there till the next lamb should fall and
the `spirit of the beast go downwards.' Happy England, that experiences
these things so seldom, and even then so locally that barely one in ten
hears of or sees them!
The cattle of course suffer too; all day long files of water-carts go
down into the hollows where the springs burst forth, and at such times
half the work of the farm consists in fetching the precious liquid
perhaps a mile or more. Even in ordinary summers there is often a
difficulty of this kind; and there are some farmhouses whose water for
household uses has to be brought fully half a mile. Of recent years
more wells have been sunk, but there are still too few for the purpose.
The effect of water in determining the settlements of human beings is
clearly shown here. You may walk mile after mile on the ridges and pass
nothing but a shed; the houses are in the hollows, the `coombes' or
`bottoms,' as they are called, where the springs run. The villages on
the downs are generally on a `bourne,' or winter watercourse.
In summer it is a broad winding trench with low green banks, along whose
bed you may stroll dry-shod, with the yellow corn on either hand
reaching above your head. A few sedges here and there, and that
peculiar whitened appearance left when water has passed over vegetation,
betoken that once there was a stream. It is like the watercourses and
rivers of the East, which are the roads of the traveller till the storm
comes, and, lo! in the morning is a rushing flood. Near the village
some water is to be seen in the pond which has been deepened out to hold
it, and which is, too, kept up here by a spring.
In winter the bourne often has the appearance of a broad brook: you may
observe where the current has arranged the small flints washed in from
the fields by the rain. As the villages are on the lesser `bournes,' so
the towns are placed on the banks of the rivers these fall into. There
may generally be found a row of villages and hamlets on the last slope
of the downs, where the hills sink finally away into the plain and vale,
so that if anyone went along the edge of the hills he would naturally
think the district well populated. But if instead of following the edge
he penetrated into the interior he would find the precise contrary to be
the case. Just at the edge there is water, the `heads' of the
innumerable streams that make the vale so verdant. In the days when
wealth consisted chiefly in flocks and herds, men would naturally settle
where there were `water-brooks.'
When at last the drought ceases, and the rain does come, it often pours
with tropical vehemence; so that the soil of the fields upon the slopes
is carried away into the brooks, and the furrows are filled up level
with the sand washed out from the clods, the lighter particles of earth
floating suspended in the stream, the heavier sand remaining behind.
Then, sometimes, as the slow labourer lingers over the ground, with eyes
ever bent downwards, he spies a faint glitter, and picks up an antique
coin in his horny fingers: coins are generally found after a shower, on
the same principle that the gold-seekers wash away the auriferous soil
in the `cradle,' and lay bare the yellow atoms. Such coins, too, are
sometimes of the same precious metal, ancient and rude. Sometimes the
edge of the hoe clinks against a coin, thus at last discovered after so
many centuries; yet which for years must have lain so near the surface
as to have been turned over and over again by the ploughshare, though
unnoticed.
The magnitude of the space enclosed by the earthwork, the height of the
rampart and depth of the fosse, show that it was originally intended to
be occupied by a large force. With modern artillery, the mitrailleuse,
and above all the breech-loading rifle, a comparatively small number of
men could hold a commanding position like this: a steep ascent on three
sides, and on the fourth a narrow level ridge, easily swept by their
fire. But when this entrenchment was thrown up--the chalky earth and
flints probably carried up in osier-baskets, for they do not seem to
have had wheelbarrows in those times--every single yard of rampart
required its spear or threatening arrow, so as to present an unbroken
rank along the summit. If not; the enemy approaching to close quarters
and attacking several places at once would find gaps through which they
might pour into the camp. It seems, therefore, evident that these works
once sheltered an army; and, looking at their massive character, it is
difficult to resist the conclusion that they were not temporary trenches
merely, but were permanently garrisoned.
There is another alternative; they may have been a place of refuge for
the surrounding population in the nameless wars waged between rival
kings. In that case they would, when resorted to, contain a still
larger number of persons; women and children and aged men would be
included, and to these must be added cattle and sheep. Now, reflecting
upon these considerations, and recollecting the remarks previously made
upon the lack of water on these hills, the very curious question arises,
How did such an army, or such a refugee population with cattle and
horses, supply themselves with sufficient water for drinking purposes?
The closest examination of the camp itself fails to yield even a
suggestion for an answer.
There is not the slightest trace of a well, and it may fairly be
questioned whether a well would have been practicable at that date. For
this bold brow itself stands high enough; but then, in addition, it is
piled on an elevated plateau or table-land, beneath which again is the
level at which springs break out. The wells of the district all
commence on this table-land or plain. A depression, too, is chosen for
the purpose, and their depth is about ninety feet on the average: many
are much deeper. But when to this depth the task of digging right down
through the hill piled up above the plain is added, the difficulty
becomes extreme.
On walking round the entrenchment at the bottom of the fosse, and
keeping an eye upon the herbage--the best of all guides--one spot may be
noticed where there grows a little of that `rowetty' grass seen in the
damp furrows of the meadows. But there is no sign whatever of a basin
or excavation to catch and contain this slight moisture--slight indeed,
for the earth is as hard and impenetrable here as elsewhere, and this
faint moisture is evidently caused by the rainfall draining down the
slope of the rampart. Looking next outside the works for the source of
such a supply, a spring will be found in a deep coombe, or bottom, about
800 yards--say, half a mile--from the nearest part of the fosse,
reckoning in a straight line. Then, in bringing up water from this
spring, which may be supposed to have been done in skins, a double
ascent had to be made: first up on to the level plateau, here very
narrow, next up the steep down itself. Those only who have had
experience of the immense labour of watering cattle on the hills can
estimate the work this must have been. An idea is obtained of the value
of an elevated position in early warfare, when men for the sake of its
advantage were found willing to submit to such toil.
That, however, is not all--foraging parties fetching water must have
been liable to be cut off from the main body; there were no cannon then
to cover a sortie, and if the enemy were in sufficient force and took
possession of the spring, they could compel an engagement, or drive the
besieged to surrender rather than endure the tortures of thirst. So
that a study of these English hills--widely different as are the
conditions of time and place--may throw a strong light upon many an
incident of ancient history. There are no traces remaining of any
covered way or hollow dyke leading down the slope in the direction of
the spring; but some such traces do seem to exhibit themselves in two
places--at the rear of the earthwork along the ridge of the hill, and
down the steepest and shortest ascent. The first does not come up to
the entrenchment, being separated by a wide interval; the latter does,
and may possibly have been used as a covered way, though now much
obliterated and too shallow for the purpose. The rampart itself is in
almost perfect preservation; in one spot the soil has slightly slipped,
but form and outline are everywhere distinct.
In endeavouring, however, for a moment to glance back into the unwritten
past, and to reconstruct the conditions of some fourteen or fifteen
centuries since, it must not be forgotten that the downs may then have
presented a different appearance. There is a tradition lingering still
that they were in the olden times almost covered with wood. I have
tried to fix this tradition--to focus it and give it definite shape; but
like a mist visible from a distance yet unseen when you are actually in
it, it refuses to be grasped. Still, there it is. The old people say
that the king--they have no idea which king--could follow the chase for
some forty miles across these hills, through a succession of copses,
woods, and straggling covers, forming a great forest. To look now from
the top of the rampart over the rolling hills, the idea is difficult to
admit at first. They are apparently bare, huge billowy swells of green,
with wide hollows, cultivated on the lower levels, but open and
unenclosed for mile after mile, almost without hedges, and seemingly
treeless save for the gnarled and stunted hawthorns--apparently a bare
expanse; but more minute acquaintance leads to different conclusions.
Here, to begin with, on the same ridge as the earthwork and not a
quarter of a mile distant, is a small clump of wind-harassed trees,
growing on the very edge. They are firs and beech, and, though so
thoroughly exposed to furious gales, have attained a fair height even in
that thin soil. Beech and fir, then, can grow here. Away yonder on
another ridge is another such a clump, indistinct from the distance;
though there is a pleasant breeze blowing and their boughs must sway to
it, they appear motionless. With the exception of the poplar, whose
tall top as it slowly bends to the blast describes such an arc as to
make its motion visible afar, the most violent wind fails to enable the
eye to separate the lines of light coming so nearly parallel from the
branches of an elm or an oak, even at a comparatively short distance.
The tree looks perfectly still, though you know it must be vibrating to
the trunk and loosening the earth with the wrench at its anchoring
roots.
In more than one of the deep coombes there is a row of elms--out of
sight from this post of vantage--whose tops are about level with the
plain, where you may stand on the edge and throw a stone into the rook's
nest facing you. On a lower spur, which juts out into the valley, is a
broad ash wood. Little more than a mile from hence, on the most barren
and wildest part of the down, there yet linger some stunted oaks
interspersed among the ash copses which to this day are called `the
Chace' and are proved by documentary evidence to stand on the site of an
ancient deer forest. A deer forest, too, there is (though seven or
eight miles distant, yet on the same range of hills) to this very day
tenanted by the antlered stag. Such evidence could be multiplied; but
this is enough to establish the fact that for the whole breadth of the
hills to have been covered with wood is well within possibility.
I may even go further, and say that, if left to itself, it would in a
few generations revert to that condition; for this reason: that when a
clump of trees is planted here, experience has shown that it is not so
much the wind or the soil which hinders their growth as the attacks of
animals wild and tame. Rabbits in cold, frosty weather have a
remarkable taste for the bark of the young ash-saplings: they nibble it
off as clean as if stripped with a knife, of course frequently killing
the plant. Cattle--of which a few wander on the hills--are equally
destructive to the young green shoots or `tops' of many trees. Young
horses especially will bark almost any smooth-barked tree, not to eat,
but as if to relieve their teeth by tearing it off. In the meadows all
the young oaks that spring up from dropped acorns out in the grass are
invariably torn up by cattle and the still closer-cropping sheep. If
the sheep and cattle were removed, and the plough stood still for a
century, ash and beech and oak and hawthorn would reassert themselves,
and these wide, open downs become again a vast forest, as doubtless they
were when the beaver and the marten, the wild boar and the wolf, roamed
over the country.
This great earthwork, crowning a ridge from whence a view for many miles
could have been obtained over the tops of the primeval trees, must then
have had a strangely different strategical position to what it now
seemingly occupies in the midst of almost treeless hills. Possibly,
too, the powerful effect of so many square miles of vegetation in
condensing vapour may have had a distinct influence upon the rainfall,
and have rendered water more plentiful than now: a consideration which
may help to explain the manner in which these ancient forts were held.
The general deficiency of moisture characteristic of these chalk hills
is such that it is said agriculture flourishes best upon them in what is
called a `dropping' summer, when there is a shower every two or three
days, the soil absorbing it so quickly. For the grass and hay crops
down below in the vale, and for the arable fields there with a stiff
heavy soil, on the other hand, a certain amount of dry weather is
desirable, else the plough cannot work in its seasons nor the crops
ripen or the harvest be garnered in. So that the old saying was that in
a drought the vale had to feed the hill, and in a wet year the hill had
to feed the vale: which remains true to a considerable extent, so far at
least as the cattle are concerned, and was probably true of men and
their food also before the importation of corn in such immense
quantities placed both alike free from anxiety on that account. This
deficiency of moisture being borne in mind, it is a little curious to
find ponds of water on the very summit of the down.
Scarcely a quarter of a mile from the earthwork, and on a level with
it--close to the clump of firs and beech alluded to previously--there
may be seen on this warm summer day a broad, circular, pan-like
depression partially filled with water. Being on the very top of the
ridge, and only so far sunk as to hold a sufficient quantity, there is
little or no watershed to drain into the pond; neither is there a spring
or any other apparent source of supply. It would naturally be imagined
that in this exposed position, even if filled to the brim by heavy
storms of rain, a week of sultry sunshine would evaporate it to the last
drop; instead of which, excepting, of course, unusually protracted
spells of dry weather such as only come at lengthy intervals, there will
always be found some water here; even under the blazing sunshine a
shallow pool remains, and in ordinary times the circular basin is half
full.
It is of quite modern construction, and, except indirectly, has no
bearing upon the water-supply of the earthwork, having been made within
a few years only for the convenience of the stock kept upon the hill
farms. Some special care is taken in puddling the bottom and sides to
prevent leakage, and a layer of soot is usually employed to repel boring
grubs or worms which would otherwise make their holes through and let
the water soak into the thirsty chalk beneath. In wet weather the pond
quickly fills; once full, it is afterwards kept up by the condensation
of the thick, damp mists, the dew and cloud-like vapours, that even in
the early mornings of the hot summer days so frequently cling about the
downs. These more than supply the waste from evaporation, so that the
basin may be called a dew-pond. The mists that hang about the ridges
are often almost as laden with moisture as a rain-cloud itself. They
deposit a thick layer of tiny bead-like drops upon the coat of the
wayfarer, which seem to cling after the manner of oil. Though these
hills have not the faintest pretensions to be compared with mountains,
yet when the rainy clouds hang low they often strike the higher ridges,
which from a distance appear blotted out entirely, and are then
receiving a misty shower.
Then there rise up sometimes thick masses of vapour which during the
night have gathered over the brooks and water-meadows, the marshy places
of the vale, and now come borne on the breeze rolling along the slopes;
and, as these pass over the dew-pond, doubtless its colder water
condenses that portion which draws down into the depression where it
stands. In winter the vapours clinging about the clumps of beech freeze
to the boughs, forming, not a rime merely, like that seen in the vale,
but a kind of ice-casing, while icicles also depend underneath. Now, if
a wind comes sweeping across the hill with sudden blast, these
glittering appendages rattle together loudly, and there falls a hail of
jagged icy fragments. When one has seen the size and quantity of these,
it becomes more easy to understand the amount of water which an
intangible vapour may carry with it to be condensed into the pond or
congealed upon the tree.
There is another such a pond half a mile or more from the earthwork in
another direction, but also on a level, making two upon this high and
exposed down. Many others are scattered about--they have become more
numerous of late years. Several are situate on the lower plateau, which
is also dry enough. Toiling over the endless hills in the summer heats,
I have often been driven by necessity of thirst to taste a little of the
water contained in them, though well knowing the inevitable result. The
water has a dead flavour: it is not stagnant in the sense of impurity,
but dead, even when quite clear. In a few moments after tasting it, the
mouth dries, with a harsh unpleasant feeling as if some impalpable dusty
particles had got into the substance of the tongue. This is caused
probably by suspended chalk, of which it tastes; for assuaging thirst,
therefore, it is worse than useless in summer: very different is the
exquisitely limpid cool liquid which bubbles out in the narrow coombes
far below.
The indirect bearing of the phenomena of these dew-ponds upon the
water-supply of the ancient fort is found in the evidence they supply
that under different conditions the deposit of moisture here might have
been very much larger. The ice formed upon the branches of the beech
trees in winter proves that water is often present in the atmosphere in
large quantities; all it requires is something to precipitate it.
Therefore, if these hills were once clothed with forest, as previously
suggested, it appears possible that the primitive inhabitants, after
all, may have carried on their agriculture with less difficulty, and
have been able to store up water in their camps with greater ease, than
would be the case at present. This may explain the traces of primeval
cultivation to be seen here on the barest bleakest, and most unpromising
hillsides. Such traces may be discovered at intervals all along the
slope, on the summit, and near the foot of the down at the rear of the
entrenchment.
It is easy to pass almost over them without observing the nearly
obliterated marks--the faint lines left on the surface by the implements
of men in the days when the first Caesar was yet a living memory. These
marks are like some of the little used paths which traverse the hills:
if you look along way in front you can see them tolerably distinctly,
but under your feet they are invisible, the turf being only so slightly
worn by wayfarers. So, to find the signs of ancient fields, look for
them from a distance as you approach along the slope; then you will see
squares and parallelograms dimly defined upon the sward by slightly
raised and narrow banks, green with the grass that has grown over them
for so many centuries.
They have the appearance sometimes of shallow terraces raised one above
the other, rising with the slope of the down. This terrace formation is
perhaps occasionally artificial; but in some cases, I think, the natural
conformation of the ground has been taken advantage of, having seen
terraces where not the faintest trace of cultivation was visible. It is
not always easy either to distinguish between the genuine enclosures of
ancient days and the trenches left after the decay of comparatively
modern fir-plantations, which it is usual to surround with a low mound
and ditch. Long after the fir trees have died out the green mound
remains; but there are rules by which the two, with a little care, may
be distinguished.
The ancient field, in the first place, is generally very much smaller;
and there are usually three or four or more in close proximity, divided
by the faint green ridges, sometimes roughly resembling in ground-plan
the squares of a chess-board. The mound that once enclosed a
fir-plantation is much higher, and would be noticed by the most casual
observer. It encircles a wide area, often irregular in shape, oval or
circular, and does not present the regular internal divisions of the
other--which, indeed, would be unnecessary and out of place in a copse.
It has become the fashion of recent years to break up the sward of the
downs, to pare off the turf and burn it, and scatter the ashes over the
soil newly turned up by the plough; the idea being mainly to keep more
sheep by the aid of turnips and green crops than could be grazed upon
the grass. In places it answers--in many others not; after two or three
crops the yield sometimes falls to next to nothing. There is a ploughed
field here right upon the ridge of the down, close to the ancient
earthwork, where in dry summers I have seen ripening oats barely a foot
high, and barley equally short. With all the resources of modern
agriculture, artificial manure, deeper ploughing, and more complete
cleaning, such results do not seem altogether commensurate with the
labour bestowed. Of course it is not always so, else the enterprise
would be at once abandoned. But when I come to think of the ancient
tillage in the terraces upon the barren slopes, I find it difficult to
see how, with their rude implements, the men of those times could have
procured any sustenance from their soil, unless I suppose the conditions
different.
If there was forest all around, to condense the vapours rolling over and
deposit a heavy dew or grateful rainfall, then they may have found the
stubborn earth more fruitful. Trees and brakes, and thickets, too,
would give shelter and protect the rising growth from the bitter winds;
while when first tilled the soil itself would be rich from the decay of
accumulated leaves, dead boughs, and vegetable matter. So that the
terrace gardens may have yielded plentifully then, and were probably
surrounded with stockades to protect them from the ravages of the beasts
of the forest. Now the very site of the ancient town can scarcely be
distinguished: the sheep graze, the lambs gambol gaily over it in the
sunshine, and the shepherd dozes hard by on the slope while his dog
watches the flock.
A long day of rain is often followed by a moderately fine evening--the
clouds breaking up as the sun nears the horizon. It happened one summer
evening, after just such a day of continuous showers, that I was in a
meadow about two miles distant from the hills. The rain had ceased, and
the sky was clear overhead of all but a thin film of cloud, through
which the blue was visible in places. But westward there was still a
bank of vapour concealing the sinking sun; and eastwards, towards the
downs, it was also thick and dark. I walked slowly along with a gun, on
the inner side of a great hedge which hid the hills, waiting every now
and then behind a projecting bush for a rabbit to come out--a couple
being wanted. In heavy rain, such as had lasted all day, they generally
remain within their `buries'--or if one slips out, he usually keeps on
the bank, sheltered by stoles and trees, and nibbling a little of the
grass that grows there and is comparatively dry. But as evening
approaches and the rain ceases, they naturally come forth to break a
long fast, and may then be shot.
Some little time passed thus, when, in sauntering along, I came to a gap
in the hedge, and glanced through it in the direction of the downs,
there partly visible. The idea at once occurred to me that the part of
the hills seen through the gap was remarkably high--very much higher and
more mountainous than any I had ever visited; and actually, in the
abstraction of the moment, half-intent on the rabbits and half perhaps
thinking of other things, I resolved to explore that section more
thoroughly. Yet, after walking a few yards further, somehow it seemed
singular that the great elevation of this down should never previously
have been so apparent. In short, growing curious in the matter, I
returned to the gap and looked again.
There was no mistake: there was the down rising up against the sky--a
huge dusky mountainous hill, exactly the same in outline as I remembered
it, quite familiar, and yet entirely strange. There was the old barn
near the foot of the slope; above it the black line of a low hedge and
mound; on the summit the same old clump of trees; and lastly, a tall
column of black smoke rising upwards, as if from a steam plough at work.
It was all just the same, but lifted up into the air--the hill grown
into a mountain. A second and longer gaze failed to discover the
explanation of the apparition: the eye was completely deceived, and yet
the mind was not satisfied. But upon getting up into the gap of the
hedge, so as to obtain a better view from the mound, the cause of the
illusion was at once visible.
Looking through the gap was like looking through a narrow window, only a
short section of the hill being within sight; from the elevation of the
mound the whole range of hills could be seen at the same time. Then it
became immediately apparent that on either side of this great mountain
the continuation of the down right and left remained still at its former
level. Upon the central hill a cloud was resting, and had for the time
taken its exact shape. The ridge itself was dark, and the dark grey
vapour harmonised precisely with its hue; so that the real hill and the
cloud merged into each other. Either the barn and clump of trees were
reproduced or perhaps enlarged and distorted by the refraction: the
seeming column of smoke was a fragment of a blacker colour which chanced
to be in a nearly perpendicular position. Even when recognised as such,
the illusion was still perfect; nor could the eye separate the hill from
the unsubstantial vapour.
As I watched it, the apparent column of smoke bent, and its upper part
floated away, enlarging just as smoke, its upward motion overcome by the
wind, slowly yields to the current. Soon afterwards the light breeze
stretched out one end of the mass of cloud, began to roll up the other,
and presently lifted it, revealing the real ridge beneath, which grew
momentarily more distinctly defined. Finally, the misty bank hung
suspended over the down, and slowly sailed eastwards with the wind.
Some time afterwards I saw a similar mirage-like enlargement of the down
by cloudy vapour resting on it and assuming its contour; but the
illusion was not so perfect, because seen from a more open spot,
allowing an extended view of the range, and because the cloud was
lighter in colour than the hill to which it clung.
These clouds were, of course, passing at a very low elevation above the
earth: in rainy weather, although but a few hundred feet high, the
ridges are frequently obscured with cloud. The old folk in the vale,
whose whole lives have been spent watching and waiting on the weather,
say that the hills `draw' the thunder--that wherever a storm arises it
always `draws' towards them. If it comes from the west it often
splits--one storm going along the ridges to the south, and the other
passing over detached hills to the northward; so that the basin between
is rarely visited by thunder overhead. They have, too, an old
superstition--based apparently, on a text of the Bible--that the thunder
always rises originally in the north, though it may reach them from a
different direction. For it is their belief also that thunder `works
round;' so that after a heavy storm, say in the afternoon, when the air
has cleared to all appearance, they will tell you that the sunshine and
calm are a deception. In a few hours' time, or in the course of the
night, the storm will return, having `worked round:' and indeed in that
locality this is very often the case. It is to be observed that even a
small copse will for a short distance in its rear quite divert the
course of a breeze; so that a weathercock placed on the leeside is
entirely untrustworthy: if the wind really blows from the south and over
the copse, the weathercock will sometimes point in precisely the
opposite direction, obeying the `undertow' of the gale, as it were,
drawing backwards.
In summer especially, I fancy, an effect is sometimes produced by a
variation in the electrical condition of comparatively small areas,
corresponding perhaps with the difference of soil--one becoming more
heated than another. Showers are certainly often of a remarkably local
character: a walk of half a mile along a road dark from recent rain will
frequently bring you to a place where the dust is white and thick as
ever, the line of demarcation sharply marked across the highway. In
winter rain takes a wider sweep.
From the elevation of the earthwork on the downs--with a view of mile
after mile of plain and vale below--it is easy on a showery summer day
to observe the narrow limits of the rain. Dusky streamers, like the
train of a vast dark robe, slope downwards from the blacker
water-carrying cloud above--downwards and backwards, the upper cloud
travelling faster than the falling drops. Between the hill and the rain
yonder intervenes a broad space of several miles, and beyond it again
stretches a clear opening to the horizon. The streamers sweep along a
narrow strip of country which is drenched with rain, while on either
side the sun is shining.
It seems reasonable to imagine that in some way that strip of country
acts differently for the time being upon the atmosphere immediately
above it. So singularly local are these conditions, sometimes, that one
farmer will show you a flourishing crop of roots which was refreshed by
a heavy shower just in the nick of time, while his neighbour is loudly
complaining that he has had no rain. When the sky is overcast--large
masses of cloud, with occasional breaks, passing slowly across it at a
considerable elevation without rain--sometimes through these narrow
slits long beams of light fall aslant upon the distant fields of the
vale. They resemble, only on a greatly lengthened scales the beams that
may be seen in churches of a sunny afternoon, falling from the upper
windows on the tiled floor of the chancel, and made visible by motes in
the air. So through such slits in the cloudy roof of the sky the rays
of the sun shoot downwards, made visible on their passage by the
moisture or the motes floating in the atmosphere. They seem to linger
in their place as the clouds drift with scarcely perceptible motion; and
the labourers say that the sun is sucking up water there.
In the evening of a fine day the mists may be seen from hence as they
rise in the meadows far beneath: beginning first over the brooks, a long
white winding vapour marking their course, next extending over the moist
places and hollows. Higher in the air darker bars of mist, separate and
distinct from the white sheet beneath them, perhaps a hundred feet above
it, gradually come into sight as they grow thicker and blacker, one here
one yonder--long and narrow in shape. These seem to approach more
nearly in character to the true cloud than the mist which hardly rises
higher than the hedges. The latter will sometimes move or draw across
the meadows when there is no apparent wind, not sufficient to sway a
leaf, as if in obedience to light and partial currents created by a
variation of temperature in different parts of the same field.
Once now and then, looking at this range of hills from a distance of two
or three miles on moonless nights, when it has been sufficiently clear
to distinguish them, I have noticed that the particular down on which
the earthwork is situate shows more distinctly than the others. By day
no difference is apparent; but sometimes by night it seems slightly
lighter in hue, and stands out more plainly. This may perhaps be due to
some unobserved characteristic of the herbage on its slope, or possibly
to the chalky subsoil coming there nearer to the surface. The power of
reflecting light possessed by the earth, and varied by different soils
or by vegetation, is worth observation.