Over Fen and Wold

by James John Hissey

Next morning, following the excellent example of the chatty Mr. Pepys, and to borrow his favourite expression, we “awoke betimes,” to find the sunshine streaming in through our windows, whilst a glance outside revealed to us a glorious bright blue sky, flecked with fleecy fine-weather clouds.

LEISURELY TRAVEL

This cheery morning greeting could not be resisted, so, early though it was, we got up and dressed without any needless delay, and, sketch-book in hand, set forth to explore the place before breakfast, which, however, we took the precaution of ordering to be ready for us on our return, for it is trying for a hungry man to have to wait for his meal! Before going out, however, we paid our usual visit of inspection to the horses, who, we discovered, were having their toilet performed for them, luxurious creatures! though not without much “sishing,” and subdued exclamations of “Whoa! my beauty,” “Steady there now,” “Hold up, can’t yer”—sounds and utterances dear to the hearts of grooms and ostlers. We were glad to note that the horses looked fit and fresh, and not a whit the worse for their previous hard day’s work.

On the road we have always found that it is the pace rather than the distance that “knocks up cattle”; but haste formed no part of our programme, as we travelled to see and enjoy the scenery, not merely to pass through it, to sketch, to photograph, to inspect a ruin, or to do whatever took our fancy at the time; also to chat at our leisure with any one who appeared to be interesting and willing to chat—prepared under those conditions to converse with anybody from a ploughboy to a peer that chance might bring across our path, so that we might learn “how the world wags” according to the different parties’ views.

As Montaigne remarked, “Every man knows some one thing better than I do, and when I meet a stranger therefore I engage him in conversation to find that one thing out.” So we have discovered that even a lightly-esteemed ploughboy, familiar all his life with Nature in her many moods, at home in the fields and hedgerows, could tell us many things we did not know, which are common knowledge to him. A chat with an intelligent ploughboy, for such boys exist, may prove a profitable and interesting experience, for perchance it may be racy of the soil, full of the ways of wild birds and winged things, of the doings of hares, rabbits, weasels, foxes, and other animals belonging to the countryside, and of countless idle-growing things besides; above all, it is genuinely rural, and conveys an unmistakable flavour of the open air.

An intelligent rustic is unconsciously a close Nature-observer, and by listening to what he has got to say, if you can only get him to talk and keep him to his subject, you may make valuable use of the eyes of others who can see, but give small thought to what they see.

The works of White of Selborne and of Richard Jefferies have proved how attractive and refreshing to the town-tired brain are the faithful and simple record of the natural history of the English fields and woodlands, and the descriptions of the charms and beauties of the English country in all its varied aspects. One great value of such writings is that they induce people to search for, and teach them how to seek out, similar beauties for themselves in their everyday surroundings, that they never before so much as imagined to exist. So that truly a new, a costless, and a lasting pleasure in life is opened out to them.

A “THOROUGHFARE” TOWN

We found Stevenage to be a quiet, neat little town of the “thoroughfare” type, to employ a term much in vogue in the coaching days when describing places consisting chiefly of one long street. Wandering about, we noticed an old building that had manifestly been a hostelry of some importance in the pre-railway period, the archway giving entrance to the stable-yard still remaining. Now the building is converted into a pleasant residence, though, owing to the necessities of its former uses, it stands too close to the roadway to afford that privacy which the home-loving Briton so dearly delights in; which, on the other hand, the average American citizen so heartily dislikes, considering such comparative seclusion to make for dulness, and to savour of unsociability. Such old buildings, converted, wholly or in part, from inns to houses, are to be found frequently along the Great North Road. A stranger, not aware of the fact, might well wonder why those great houses were built with their ample arches in the little village street, and so close upon the roadside.

At one end of the town we found a rather pretty gabled cottage with a high-pitched roof, from which rose a good group of chimneys. This cottage, with its tiny garden railed off from the footpath by a wooden paling, made quite a charming subject for the pencil, and was the first to adorn our sketch-book. Whilst putting a few finishing touches to our drawing, a native came up. An artist at work always seems to have an irresistible attraction for country people. He opened up a conversation by admiring our sketch, though in a qualified manner. He was pleased to say that it was “mighty” pretty, only he preferred a photograph to a drawing any day. He had had a photograph taken of his house lately, and on the photograph you could count every brick on the walls and every tile on the roofs. “Now, that’s what I call a proper kind of picture,—not but that yours is very nice for hand-work”!