Through East Anglia in a Motor Car

by James Edmund Vincent

After dinner, and the necessary interval for rest and burnt sacrifice, two facts became manifest. It was a glorious moonlight night, mild for the time of year, and through all the long day we had hardly walked so many yards as we had traversed miles. So we started forth, and soon came to the firm conclusion that the "pale moonlight" is every whit as conducive to a soul-satisfying view of Norwich Cathedral as of "fair Melrose." Our first view of the west end, after passing under the great archway giving on Tombland, pleased not a little; but we had read something of the glories of the cathedral, of the apse and the apsidal chapels, of Jesus and St. Luke, abutting on the apse at either side of the east end, and the desire to see them was strong. It was not, however, very easily satisfied; for Norwich Cathedral, like far too many of the stateliest and best-proportioned edifices in our congested islands, is so hedged around with houses that it is difficult to look upon it as a whole from a sufficient distance. They are interesting houses in their way, venerable some of them, suggestive of peaceful lives spent in scholarly research; but they exasperate by impeding the view, and exasperations provoke memories of Trollope's studies of cathedral society, studies suggesting that its tone is not invariably peaceful nor high-minded; that petty jealousies and scandal can invade the most outwardly tranquil precincts and closes. Nay, more, we all know—there is no direct reference here to Norwich, and I cannot remember to have met or to have heard any evil of any inhabitant, male or female, of its ecclesiastical dwellings—that of some cathedral society Trollope's studies are still essentially true. On this occasion it is the plain and unvarnished truth that the houses blocked the view, and this not too kindly thought came to mind. The chances are that it would not have thrust itself forward if the houses had not done likewise; and that, in point of narrowness of view or breadth of it, nothing distinguishes dwellers in deaneries and canons' houses, huddled round the walls of a cathedral, from those in others which, having been placed at a respectful distance, allow the outline of the majestic structure to be seen in its pure beauty. At Norwich, too, there is more excuse for the huddling than in many a cathedral city, for space was valuable in Norwich from very early times. Citizens who taxed themselves, as those of Norwich did, to protect their city by walls, were not likely to encourage open spaces, "lungs," as it is the fashion to call them now, within the walled space, and the crowding of the precincts of the cathedral by buildings mean and insignificant compared to it—the reference is to inhabited houses only—is explained by the same cause as the narrow streets of the city itself, streets wherein the tramcars render life full of peril.

By fetching a compass, however, to the south, and without asking directions of any man, we contrived to penetrate to a narrow walk beyond the east end of the cathedral and past the cloisters, where, after finding a point of view giving the eye shelter from the glare of incandescent lamps, we looked upon a spectacle of indescribable beauty. At the bottom were the swelling curves of the apse and the chapels, above them, in orderly succession, the sloping roof and the wondrously graceful and lofty spire, outlined—for the moon was behind it—with strange clearness and yet softened in the most mysterious fashion, for in the borrowed light of the moon is no suspicion of glare to dazzle the eyes. How long we gazed, spellbound and silent, cannot be said; time passed out of our thoughts; but as we looked, I remember, a gossamer wreath of detached cloud, lying all alone and at quite a low elevation, drifted slowly across the face of the heaven and behind the steeple that pointed towards it. That was all. To describe the scene is utterly beyond my power, and, probably, to convey a complete impression of it is not within the compass of human words; for they must proceed step by step, idea by idea; but the vision was seen long, yet the first upward glance revealed the whole of it, and the last lingering look showed as much, and no more. It reduced us to silence then, to that silence which is always the unconscious tribute to unspeakable beauty. Even now no more can be said than that the memory of the vision remains, clear and pure, as of the most perfect combination of man's work and Nature's background it has ever been my privilege to behold in any part of the world.

"What meaneth this bleating of the sheep in mine ears and the lowing of the oxen which I hear?" Such was the familiar question that occurred to me when, early the next morning, I woke to find the light streaming in at my window in the "Maid's Head." Then I remembered that this was Saturday morning, and probably market-day, and I went forth quickly, and, unlike Samuel of old, gladly, for of all beasts which minister to men's needs the patient kine are to me the most interesting (except dogs); and, besides that, if one desires to know something of people, as well as of places, there are few more profitable fields for easy-going study than a large market. For there the inhabitants of the country-side are assembled from far and near, with the products of their farms, and one may study both man and beast at leisure. It was fully quarter to eight before I left the "Maid's Head," and five minutes more had passed before I was in the heart of the market. Already droves of cattle were being driven away—to the station probably—but hundreds, yes literally hundreds and hundreds, remained behind, and among them circulated drovers, dealers, and butchers, feeling their backs and loins with intelligent hands, and less rough in their usage of the beasts, it was a pleasure to see, than is usual in some other counties. Sheep there were also, and pigs doubtless, perhaps in another market. It seemed to me, not by any means innocent of cattle markets, that by some unforeseen piece of luck I must have happened on the occasion of a customary fair. Inquiry proved that this was not so; that, as a matter of fact, this was but such a gathering of cattle as is customary at the season of the year, and that I had not reached the scene until the bulk of the business had been transacted. It was clear at once that boots and mustard—in the former I gathered that cut-throat competition had reduced profits to a minimum and almost to a minus quantity—were not by any means the only industries by which Norwich stood. It was, and is, an immense cattle market; and the stock, the general average of quality in which was distinctly high, was worth a tremendous lot of money. Yet, as I saw it first, it was a market which had more than begun to dwindle away, a colossal and altogether gratifying sight notwithstanding.

It was pleasing to observe that, although here and there a black beast or a mongrel might be seen, and a considerable number of Shorthorns, the Norfolk farmers as a body cling to the old East Anglian breed of Red Polls. They could not do better. The Red Polls mature early, make a lot of beef, and are hardy; the cows of the breed are admirable milkers, and celebrated for remaining long in profit; and the absence of horns is a distinct gain when it comes to a matter of transport by train. Far be it from me to compare the merits of breeds of cattle apart from environment, for that is often rather a foolish thing to do. Environment matters a great deal and, nobly as Shorthorns thrive in many parts of the country, and at Sandringham in Norfolk particularly, there remains in me a strong conviction that the local breeds, Red Polls in East Anglia, Herefords in the Marches and Borderland of Wales, Devons in the county from which they take their name, Castle Martins in South Wales, and Welsh black cattle in North Wales, thrive best in their appointed districts under the conditions to which the normal farmer is more or less bound to expose them. They fill in the picture better, too, than do cattle of a "foreign" stamp. Your white-faced Hereford seems out of place in Berkshire, a Kerry looks like a toy in Hertfordshire; only for the gentle Jersey cattle—Mr. Cobbold has a herd of them at Felixstowe, but that is a story to come later—would I make an exception. They, however, are not farmers' cattle, for they are worth little to kill, and their rich milk, sold at ordinary prices, as it must be, is too small in quantity to be profitable. They are for private owners and butter-makers only, and, as such, they cannot be surpassed.

Let this headstrong hobby be curbed; but let it be added that these burly, fair-complexioned farmers of Norfolk, whose very faces, seen in considerable numbers, convinced one more than much reading of the presence of abundant Danish blood in the county, looked and acted as if they understood their business thoroughly. If they go on breeding gentle Red Polls—the Red Polls are really quiet of disposition, perhaps because inherited instinct tells them it is poor sport to fight without horns—it is because the process pays. Let me add, in opposition to a statement seen elsewhere, that I saw nothing of that brutal treatment of the animals which is far too usual an accompaniment of the cattle trade. So to the general market near the Guildhall, a grateful sight because more flowers were for sale on the stalls than is usual in provincial markets, and the wares, particularly the butter and the fowls, the latter neatly trussed and wrapped in coarse muslin of spotless cleanliness, were so nicely exposed for sale. Leland observed that "Northfolk" were said to be "ful of wyles"; a barber, from Hants, told me that morning, when I said I found the people very intelligent, that he thought they knew far too much. My own view is that of the "wyles" which consist in cleanly neatness in exposing food for sale it is not possible to find too much, and not often easy to find enough, in this England of ours.

Of the Guildhall, really a very interesting example, dating from the beginning of the fifteenth century, of ingenious work in flint, and its contents, some mention has been made before, and of the interior of the cathedral also. But we entered the cathedral once more, walking on tiptoes in the grand and empty nave, and certainly not disturbing the worshippers in the chancel, for service was going on. The organ, as on a former visit, was remarkably impressive, and, as quite a minor detail, I noted part of an almost illegible inscription to one Ingloit on the south pillar of the chancel arch. "In descant most, in voluntary all, he past." What was, or is, "descant"? None of us knew. The necessary if rather humiliating process of reference to a dictionary, which it is more honest to confess than it would be to profess to have understood the legend at first sight, showed that descant was the first stage in the development of counterpoint. So, mounting once more to the Norman tower on the Castle Mound, to look at the entrance to the Museum, but not entering, for time pressed and our enterprise lay in the open air, we repaired to the "Maid's Head," discharged the reckoning, and were off again to the westward, on a windless and rainless day; but that wisp of cloud no bigger than a man's hand, which we had seen behind the cathedral spire against the pure blue overnight, had been the precursor of a grey veil of cloud which overspread the whole face of the sky.

Always to make sure of your exits is one of the golden rules of successful motoring. Entrances do not matter so much. If, having followed unknown roads over strange country for many miles, you eventually strike the town of your desires, that is enough for all practical purposes. You are sure to be as near your actual destination as makes no difference to a motor-car worthy of mention in almost any town or city in England except London. But a wrong exit is fatal. Our instructions from John Ostler of the "Maid's Head," who took to a motor kindly as if he had never seen curry-comb or dandy-brush, were elaborate; but the leading feature of them was that, when we reached the market-place near the Guildhall, we should ask for what, on its spelling, we called "Earlham Road." "Ask for the 'Arlam' Road," said John Ostler; and forthwith sprang into memory the fact that at Norwich we were in the heart of that part of East Anglia in which the Gurneys and their kin were never weary of well-doing and, as is the custom of Quakers, throve amazingly in their business. Of them, of their good deeds, of their family life, a full account may be found in one of the very best books of what, for lack of a better description, may be called earnest family gossip. Need it be added that the book is The Gurneys of Earlham, by Augustus J. C. Hare (London: George Allen)? Well, perhaps it is necessary to give the information, for the two volumes contain little or nothing which is sensational, they saw the light of day in 1895, and all but the very best of books, to say nothing of a good many of them also, pass out of the mind of a hurrying generation in less than that time, and in much less. Of the Gurneys, of their manifold relatives and connections, of their abundant and honourable commerce, of their share in the making of Norwich, of their sober and intimate family life, it would be a sheer delight to write at length; but this is hardly the place in which to attempt again that which has been done remarkably well already. Suffice it therefore to commend the book, and to quote an unrivalled description of it by a masterly hand. That it happens to be found in the first three pages of the first volume is mere coincidence. Those who are so disposed may, if it pleases them, imagine that they are quoted simply because they come first, and refuse to believe that the volumes are among the familiar acquaintance of one who finds a wholesome and hearty appreciation of the joys of the open air to be entirely consistent with a rational pleasure in books.

"After leaving the hollow where the beautiful crochetted spire of Norwich Cathedral and the square masses of its castle rise above the dingy red roofs and blue smoke of the town, the road to Lynn ascends what, generally called an incline, is in Norfolk a long hill. After passing its brow, at about three miles from the city, the horizon is fringed by woods—grey in winter, radiant with many tints in summer—which belong to Earlham. This delightful old place has for centuries been the property of the Bacon family, and they have never consented to sell it; but since 1786 it has been rented by the Gurneys, a period of a hundred and nine years—perhaps one of the oldest tenancies known for a mansion of the size, though very frequent in the case of farmhouses. Thus, to the Gurney family, it has become the beloved home of five generations; to them its old chambers are filled with the very odour of holiness; its ancient gardens and green glades and sparkling river bring thoughts of domestic peace and happiness, which cannot be given in words; its very name is a refrain of family unity and love.

"The little park of Earlham is scarcely more than a paddock, with its fine groups of trees and remains of avenues, in one of which a Bacon of old time is still supposed to wander, with the hatchet in his hand which he was using on the day of his death. Where the trees thicken beyond the green slopes, above an oval drive familiarly called 'The World,' stands the house, white-washed towards the road by the colour-hating Quaker, second wife of Joseph John Gurney, but infinitely beautiful towards the garden in the pink hues of its brick with grey stone ornaments, and the masses of vine and rose which festoon its two large projecting windows and white central porch. Hence the wide lawn, to which the place owes its chief dignity, spreads away on either side to belts of pine trees, fringed by terraces, where masses of snowdrops and aconites gleam amongst the mossy grass in early spring. The west side of the house is perhaps the oldest part, and bears a date of James First's time on its two narrow gables. Hence the river is seen gleaming and glancing in the hollows, where it is crossed by the single arch of a bridge. From the low hall, with its old-fashioned furniture and pictures, a very short staircase leads to an ante-room opening on the drawing-room, where Richmond's striking full-length portrait of Mrs. Fry, now occupies a prominent place among the likenesses of her brothers and sisters. Another sitting-room leads to what was the sitting-room of the seven Gurney sisters of the beginning of the nineteenth century, with an old Bacon portrait let into the panelling over the fireplace. The dining-room is downstairs, and was the latest addition to the house, a handsome, long and lofty room, built by Mr. Edward Bacon, long M.P. for Norwich, that he might entertain his constituents. Close by is the humble little study occupied by the father of the numerous Gurney family of three generations ago. But the pleasantest room at Earlham is 'Mrs. Catherine's Chamber,' always occupied by the eldest daughter, mother and sister in one, and in which in her old age, with her beautiful intonation and delicate sense of fitting emphasis, she would assemble the young Norwich clergy to teach them how the Scriptures should be read in church."

Surely Mr. Hare, who wrote many a vivid description, was often entertaining, and sometimes a little spiteful, never penned a passage better calculated than this to bring home the characters of a home and of the dwellers in it. The single trace of the old Adam, or the old Augustus, is the gently sarcastic antithesis of Richmond's "portrait" and the "likenesses." Earlham's peace and goodwill bewitched Augustus Hare, and those who had been entertained by his bitterness, no less than those who have writhed under it, will recognize the strength of Earlham's tranquil witchery. Somewhere I have read of late that the Gurneys are of Earlham no more. That is sad indeed.