Over Fen and Wold

by James John Hissey

Calm and deep peace on this high wold,
. . . . . .
Calm and still light on yon great plain
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening towers,
To mingle with the bounding main.

For we were now nearing the birthplace and early home of the great Victorian poet, and he was fond of wandering all the country round, and might well have noted this wonderful view. No poet or painter could pass it by unregarded!

On this spreading upland the light sweet air, coming fresh and free over leagues of land and leagues of sea, met us with its invigorating breath. After the heavy, drowsy air of the Fens it was not only exhilarating but exciting, and we felt impelled to do something, to exert ourselves in some manner—this was no lotus-eating land—so for want of a better object we left the dogcart and started forth on a brisk walk. One would imagine that all the energy of the county would be centred in the Wold region, and that the dwellers in the Fens would be slothful and unenergetic in comparison. Yet the very reverse is the case. The Wolds—townless and rail-less—are given over to slumberous quietude and primitive agriculture, its inhabitants lead an uneventful life free from all ambition, its churches are poor and small whilst the churches of the Fens in notable contrast are mostly fine and large, its hamlets and villages remain hamlets and villages and do not grow gradually into towns: it is a bit of genuine Old England where old customs remain and simple needs suffice. A land with

Little about it stirring save a brook!
A sleepy land, where under the same wheel
The same old rut would deepen year by year.

On the other hand, the Fenland inhabitants appear to be “full of go” with their growing villages, prosperous towns, flourishing ports, railways, and waterways. It was energy that converted the wild watery waste of the Fens into a land smiling with crops; it is energy that keeps it so.

A GLORIOUS UPLAND

As we progressed we lost sight of the Fens, and soon found ourselves in the midst of circling hills that bounded our prospect all around—hills that dipped gently down to shady, wooded valleys, and rose above them to bare, grassy, or fir-fringed summits, bathed in soft sunshine. Along the sloping sides of this glorious upland we could trace the narrow white country roads winding far away and wandering up and down till lost in the growing grayness of the misty distance—just like the roads of Devonshire. Indeed, in parts, the country we passed through distinctly reminded us of Devonshire; it was as far removed from the popular conception of Lincolnshire scenery as a Dutch landscape is from a Derbyshire one. Indeed, a cyclist whom we met that evening at Horncastle declared indignantly to us that he considered Lincolnshire “a fraud”; he had been induced to tour therein under the impression that the roads were “all beautifully level and good going.” He had just ridden over the Wolds that day, he explained, hence his disparaging remarks—and he was very angry!

Journeying on we presently reached the lonely, picturesque, and prettily-named village of Mavis Enderby. Its ancient church, a field’s space away from the road, looked interesting with its hoary walls, gray stone churchyard cross, and little sun-dial. In the porch we noted a holy-water stoup supported on four small clustered pillars; the interior of the building we did not see, for the door was locked and we felt too lazy to go and hunt for the key. The top of the cross is adorned with a carving of the Crucifixion on one side, and of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Saviour on the other. The shaft for about half its extent upwards is manifestly ancient, the rest, including of course the sculpturings, is as manifestly modern, though not of yesterday, for the latter portion already shows slight signs of weathering, and has become time-mellowed and lichen-clad. The figures at the top are effectively but roughly carved in faithful imitation of medieval work of the same class. So faithful in fact and spirit indeed is the copy that there is no small danger of antiquaries in the years to come being deceived, and pronouncing the cross to be a rare and well-preserved specimen of fifteenth-century work. Apropos of this carefully studied copying of ancient work it may not be uninteresting to quote here from a letter of Lord Grimthorpe upon the restoration of St. Albans Abbey which he carried out. “It took no small trouble to get them (new stones inserted in the work) worked as roughly as the old ones, so as to make the work homogeneous, and to bewilder antiquaries who pretend to be able to distinguish new work from old; which indeed architects generally make very easy for them.”

As we were about leaving we observed an intelligent-looking man leisurely walking on the road, the only living person we had seen in the village by

A MODERN PURITAN