CHAPTER VI
Cromwell’s birthplace—Records of the past—Early photographs—A breezy day—Home-brewed ale—Americans on English scenery—Alconbury Hill—The plains of Cambridgeshire—The silence of Nature—Stilton—A decayed coaching town—A medieval hostelry—A big sign-board—Old-world traditions—Miles from anywhere.
Returning to our comfortable hostelry after our pleasant wanderings, we felt just sufficiently tired to enjoy the luxury of taking our ease therein, but “hungry as hunters” from our long tramp, therefore we rejoiced in the fact that the worthy landlady had not forgotten her guests, for we found quite a sumptuous repast awaiting us, worthy of the ancient traditions of the house, though we on our part, it must be confessed, were not equally worthy of the traditions of our ancestors in the wine side of the feast; indeed, our healthy out-of-door life gave us a positive distaste for wine of any kind. We always infinitely preferred a homely draught of good old English ale, than which, for thirsty mortals, a better drink has yet to be invented!
It may be remembered—though we only gleaned the fact whilst in Huntingdon—that Oliver Cromwell was born in that town, and was educated at the grammar school there. The house in which the Protector “first saw the light of day” has, alas! been pulled down, but an ancient drawing thereof represents it as being a comfortable and substantial two-storied building, apparently of stone, having Tudor mullioned windows and three projecting dormers in the roof. At the commencement of the century the house was standing, and was shown as one of the sights of the place. If only photography had been invented earlier, what interesting and faithful records might have been preserved for us of such old historic places which are now no more! As it is, we have to be content with ancient drawings or prints of bygone England, and these not always skilfully done, nor probably always correct in detail. Furthermore, artists, then as now, perhaps more then than now, romanced a little at times, and therefore were not so faithful to facts as they might have been; as witness many of Turner’s poems in paint, which, however beautiful as pictures, are by no means invariably true representations of the places and scenes they profess to portray. Indeed, there is a story told of Turner, who, when sketching from Nature upon one occasion, deliberately drew a distant town on the opposite side of the river to which it really stood, because, as he explained, “It came better so”!
PHOTOGRAPHIC RECORDS
An unknown and very kind friend some time ago most courteously sent me a number of prints from paper negatives taken in the early days of photography by the Fox-Talbot process, and amongst these chanced to be an excellent view of the ancient hostelry of the “George” at Norton St. Philips in Somerset (a wonderful old inn, by the way, which I have already very fully described in a former work[1]). When I received the prints, I had only recently both carefully drawn and photographed the quaint old-time hostelry, and I found that, even in the comparatively short period that had elapsed since the Fox-Talbot negatives were made, certain marked changes had taken place in the building; so there can be no doubt as to the value and interest of such recording photographs, for the lens has no bias, but faithfully reproduces what is before it, neither adding to nor taking away therefrom for the sake of effect. Now that, fortunately, both the amateur and professional photographer are in evidence everywhere, future generations will happily possess true, if not always artistic, representations of places and historic spots as they really were at the time of being taken; and in the case of matters of antiquarian or archæological interest, we can well pardon the probable loss of picturesqueness for the sake of accuracy. Fancy, if we could only have to-day photographs preserved for us showing, for example, Fountains Abbey in the full glory of its Gothic prime, or of other notable buildings of the medieval age, how we should prize them! If we only had a few faithful photographs of Elizabethan England to compare with Victorian England, what a precious possession they would be! What would not one give for a “snap-shot” of the Invincible(?) Armada arrogantly sailing up the English Channel in stately procession, or of the innumerable pageants of bygone times with all their wealth of picturesque paraphernalia!
[1] Through Ten English Counties.
We were up early in the morning, and before breakfast had made a sketch of the quaint and ancient courtyard of the “George,” an engraving of which is given in the last chapter. By a little after nine the dog-cart, packed for travelling, was at the side door of our inn, and bidding good-bye to the landlady—who in the good old-fashioned manner had come to see us off and wish us a pleasant journey—we took our departure, and were soon once more in the open country. Overnight we had, as our wont, consulted our map as to our next day’s stage, and determined that we would drive to Stamford, just twenty-five and three-quarter miles from Huntingdon, according to our faithful Paterson.
Again we had delightful weather: a fresh, invigorating breeze was blowing from the west; overhead was a deep blue sky, from which the sun shone warmly, but not too warmly, down. The air was clear and sweet, and the country all around full of brightness, colour, and movement, for the wind swayed the trees in its path, and made golden waves as it swept over the unreaped corn-fields, and green ones as it passed over the long grasses in the meadows; it rippled the waters on ponds and rivers, and whirled the sails of the windmills round at a merry pace; the brisk breeze gave animation to the landscape, and seemed to imbue it with actual life. Huntingdonshire, fortunately for the traveller therein, possesses no large manufacturing towns, Huntingdon, St. Neots, and St. Ives being of the compact, clean, homely order—more agricultural centres than commercial ones. Therefore the atmosphere of the county is not smoke-laden or oppressed with grayness, but pure, bright, and buoyant, with the scent of the real country about it—an atmosphere that makes one suddenly realise that there is a pleasure in merely breathing!
HOME-BREWED ALE