THE CHARM OF MYSTERY
bridge has become quite an institution in some places!
As we went out to do a little shopping, we were amused and instructed to hear the different ways that the natives pronounced the name of their town. One would have imagined that there was only one way of doing this, but we discovered three: the first party we conversed with distinctly called it St. Notes, a second as emphatically declared it to be St. Nots, and still another would have it St. Neets, whilst we as strangers had innocently pronounced it as spelt; and now I do not feel at all certain as to which is the prevailing local appellation, or if there may still be another variety.
Our bedroom window faced the old market-square—a large, open, and picturesque space, pleasant to look upon; and at the window we sat for a time watching the life of the place and the odd characters coming and going. It was all as entertaining to us as a scene in a play, and a good deal more so than some, for there was no indifferent acting in our players, and no false drawing in the background—the perspective was perfect! And, as we watched, the light in the west gradually faded away, whilst the moon rose slowly and shone down, large and solemn, through the haze that gathered around when the dusk descended. The gentle radiance of the moonlight made the mist luminous with a mellow light—a light that lent the magic charm of mystery to the prospect. The houses, grouped irregularly round the square, were indistinctly revealed, all their harsher features being softened down; then one after another lights gleamed forth from their many-paned windows, with a warm yellow cheerfulness in marked contrast with the cold silvery moonshine without. The mist-damped roadway was reflective, and repeated vaguely the yellow gleams above, and imparted to the scene quite a Turneresque effect. Above the low-roofed houses, dimly discernible, rose the tall tower of the stately parish church, so grand a church that it has earned the epithet of “the cathedral of Huntingdon.” It was a poetic vision, very beautiful and bewitching to look upon, we thought; but, after all, much of the beauty in a prospect lies in the imaginative qualities of the beholder: we may all see the same things, yet we do not see them in the same manner!
CHAPTER V
The charm of small towns—The Ouse—A pleasant land—Buckden Palace—A joke in stone—The birthplace of Samuel Pepys—Buried treasure—Huntingdon—An old-time interior—A famous coaching inn—St. Ives—A church steeple blown down!—A quaint and ancient bridge—A riverside ramble—Cowper’s country—Two narrow escapes.
One of the special charms of small towns like St. Neots is that you can readily walk out of them in any direction right into the country; and what a boon it must be to the inhabitants of such places to have the real country all around them, easily accessible even to children, and this without having to take to cab or railway! So next morning, after starting early, as was our wont, we soon found ourselves amongst the green fields and trees again. It was a bright sunshiny day, with a fleecy sky above and a brisk breeze below—the very weather for driving.
Just outside St. Neots we came to a gateway on the road with the gate closed and barring our path; there was, however, a man at hand to open it, and a very prominent notice-board facing us inscribed—“The man who attends to the common-gate is not paid any wage, and is dependent upon the free gifts of the public.” This notice struck us as being somewhat novel, practically converting the gate into a toll-gate, for the moral obligation to tip was thereby made manifest—and why should gates be allowed on the main highways?
After this we crossed a long open common, at the farther end of which we passed through still another gate, that also needed another tip for the opening thereof; then we came to our old friend the Ouse again, which we crossed on a bridge by the side of a mill; just before reaching this we noticed that there was a raised causeway approach to the bridge for pedestrians above and alongside of the road, suggestive of winter flooding. The causeway also suggested an excellent motive for a picture with suitable figures on it, to be entitled “When the river is in flood.” It would form quite a Leaderesque subject, taken at a time when the day is waning, and wan yellow lights are in the sky, and a yellow sheen lies on the stream.
The Ouse here is very pretty, clear-watered, and gentle-gliding, fringed with reedy banks and overhung by leafy trees, the whole being rich in colour and broad in effect. Indeed, the Ouse is a very pleasant, lazy stream, and a most sketchable one too. The discovery of the picturesqueness of this river—of which more anon—was one of the unexpected good things of our journey.