A SELF-APPOINTED GUIDE
regularly re-occurs to me, that I have become quite philosophical on the subject! There is no novelty about the same experience often repeated; the only rejoinder it provokes on my part is a smiling “Of course,” or a mild, remonstrating “Oh! I left that for another day.”
On entering Welwyn church, we encountered a talkative old body; why she was there I cannot say, for she was apparently doing nothing, and this is no tourist-haunted region with guides of both sexes on the watch and wait for the unwary; but there she was, a substantial personage not to be overlooked. At once she attached herself to us, and asked if we had come to see Dr. Young’s tomb—“him as wrote the Night Thoughts.” We meekly replied that we did not even know that he was buried there. “Well,” she responded, “now I do wonders at that, I thoughts as how everybody knew it.” From the superior tone in which she said this, we felt that she looked down upon us as ignoramuses—such is the lot of the traveller who does not know everything! Then she pointed out with a grimy finger—assuming the aggravating air of one who has valuable information to impart, and will impart it whether you will or no—a marble slab put up to the memory of the worthy doctor (I presume he was a worthy doctor) on the south wall of the nave. Having duly inspected this, our self-appointed guide suddenly exclaimed, still maintaining her amusing didactic manner, “He’d much better have gone to bed and slept like a good Christian than have sit up o’ nights a-writing his thoughts.” We weakly smiled acquiescence, though perhaps it was hardly a fair thing to do, for we had to confess to ourselves that we had not even read the book in question. “Have you?” we queried. “Lor’ bless you, sir,” replied she, still in an authoritative tone of voice, “books is all rubbish, I never reads rubbish; give me the papers with some news in ’em, I says, that’s the reading for me,” and with this we took our hurried departure. We have taught the people to read, which is a most excellent thing, but, from all my experience, the country folk prefer newspapers, frequently of a trashy nature, to solid books; for the present they devour the “penny dreadful,” whilst the cheap classic remains unread!
Out of Welwyn the road mounted slightly, and to our left we passed a large park; the sun’s rays glinting down between the big tree-trunks therein sent long lines of golden light athwart the smooth sward, and the lengthening shadows suggested to us that the day was growing old, and that, unless we wished to be belated, we had better hasten on. Then followed a pleasant stretch of wooded country, the west all aglow with the glory of the setting sun, whilst a soft grayness was gradually spreading over the east, blotting out all trivial details, and causing the landscape there to assume a dim, mysterious aspect; in that direction the scenery might be commonplace enough in the glaring light of mid-day—possibly it was, but just then under that vague effect it looked quite poetical, and by giving our romantic fancies full rein we could almost have imagined that there lay the enchanted forest of
A ROADSIDE ENIGMA
fairy-tale renown. A little occasional romancing may be allowed on a driving tour; he is a dull and unpoetic soul, indeed, who never indulges in a moment’s harmless day-dreaming now and again!
Soon the slumberous, unprogressive little town of Stevenage came in view, and just before it, on a green space to the right of the road, we espied six curious-looking, grass-grown mounds all in a row, like so many pigmy green pyramids. We afterwards learnt that these are supposed to be Danish Barrows; but learned antiquaries, like most of their kind, are not all agreed upon this point, though the majority hold to the Danish theory. Still, Danish or not, there they stand to challenge the curiosity of the observant wayfarer. A roadside enigma that doubtless puzzled our forefathers, and afforded food for discussion when journeying in these parts, the railway traveller misses them and much else besides as he is whirled through the land at a speed that only permits of a blurred impression of fields and woods, of rivers and hills, of church towers, towns, hamlets, and farmsteads—that is, when the train is not rushing through a cutting, or plunging into a darksome tunnel. In a scenic sense between the Great North Road and the Great Northern Railway is a vast gulf!
At the present day, at any rate at the time we were there, these prehistoric relics were serving the undistinguished purpose of a ready-made and somewhat original recreation-ground for the town’s children; for as we passed by we observed quite a number of them climbing up and down the barrows, playing “King of the Castle” thereon, and generally romping over and round about them with much noisy merriment. I really think that these ancient mounds deserve to be better cared for; those things that are worthy of being preserved should be preserved, for antiquity once destroyed can never be replaced; it is too late when a monument of the past has disappeared to discover how interesting it was.
At Stevenage we put up for the night at the “White Lion,” a homely little hostelry, where we found clean and comfortable, if not luxurious, quarters for ourselves, and good accommodation for our horses, and not being of an exacting nature, were well content. So ended our first long day’s wanderings.
We had seen so much since we left London in the early morning, that we felt it difficult to realise, on the authority of our copy of Paterson’s Roads (last edition of 1829), we had only travelled some thirty-one miles; the precise distance we could not arrive at, since Paterson takes his measurement from “Hick’s Hall,” and we did not start from the site thereof; indeed, exactly where “Hick’s Hall” stood I am not very clear—somewhere in Smithfield, I believe.