A CONCEIT IN METAL
into requisition to record their varied outlines and quaint conceits, that truly splendid specimen of the “Bell” at Stilton—about which I shall have more to say when we arrive there—especially delighting us. At the sign of a certain “White Hart” elsewhere we could not but imagine that the open iron-work above it in the shape of a heart was not accidental, but intended as a play on words in metal, if the expression may be allowed.
After Graveley the road plucked up a little spirit and the scenery improved, just as though it were doing its best to please us. At one point there suddenly opened a fine view to the left, reaching over a vast extent of country bounded by an uneven horizon of wooded hills—hills that showed as a long, low undulating line, deeply blue, but enlivened by touches of greeny-gold where the sunshine rested for a moment here and there; it was as if Nature in one of her lavish moods had washed the horizon over with a tint of ultramarine, “for who can paint like Nature?”—little she recks the quantity or the rarity of the hues she employs, miles upon miles oftentimes, and that for a mere transient effect! To our right also our charmed visions ranged over a wide expanse of wooded plain, so space-expressing in its wealth of distances, the blue of which made us realise the ocean of air that lay between us and the remote horizon, the reality of the invisible!
After the confined limits of the house-bound streets of town, our eyes positively rejoiced in the unaccustomed freedom of roving unrestrained over so much space—a sudden change from yards to miles! I have found from experience what a relief it is for the eye to be able thus to alter its focus from the near to the far-away: the vision like the mind is apt to become cramped by not being able to take a broad view of things. I verily believe that the eyes are strengthened by having the daily opportunity of exercising their full functions; this may be a fanciful belief on my part, but I hold it and write advisedly.
Gradually, as we proceeded, our road widened out, and was bounded on either hand by pleasant grassy margins, that, had we been on a riding instead of a driving tour, would certainly have tempted us to indulge in a canter. These grassy margins used to form part of the hard, well-kept highway when there was room for four coaches abreast at one time thereon. I wonder whether these spare spaces will ever be utilised for cycle tracks?
What, I further wonder, would our ancestors—could they come back to life again, and travel once more along the old familiar roads—think of the new steel-steed, and what would they make of the following notice, appended to the sign of an old inn on the way, which we deemed worthy of being copied?—
Good Accommodation
and
Stabling
for
Cyclists and Motorists.
This brings to mind the truth that lies in the old Latin saying, Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis.
CHAPTER III
A gipsy encampment—A puzzling matter—Farming and farmers past and present—An ancient market-town—A picturesque bit of old-world architecture—Gleaners—Time’s changes—A house in two counties—A wayside inn—The commercial value of the picturesque.