Over Fen and Wold

by James John Hissey

In the illustration of Somersby rectory, as seen from the garden, given herewith, the room in which

SOMERSBY RECTORY: THE BIRTHPLACE OF TENNYSON.

AT SOMERSBY

the poet was born is distinguished by the creeper-grown iron balcony. To the right of the building is shown the gabled exterior of the Gothic dining-room with the sunlight flickering over it, and the curious little statues in the niches thereof, the carved shields built into the wall, the grotesque heads graven on either side of the traceried windows, and lastly, and most noticeably, the quaint gargoyles projecting boldly forth. This addition of Dr. Tennyson to the rectory at once gives it a welcome character, and lifts it out of the commonplace; without such addition the house would be pleasant enough to look upon in a homely way, but featureless. Like human beings, buildings are improved by a little character; there is plenty of insipidity in the world in flesh and blood as well as in bricks, or stones, and mortar.

The old bird-haunted garden behind the rectory—especially beloved by blackbirds and thrushes—with its old-fashioned flower-beds, its summer-house, dark copper beeches, and sunny lawn sloping to the south, remains much as when the Tennyson family were there, and a rustic gate, just as of old, leads to the meadows and the brook that “runs babbling to the plain.” For the sake of posterity it would be well if this storied rectory, together with the little garden, could be preserved in its original and picturesque simplicity for ever. Any day may be too late! In the historic perspective of the centuries to come, Tennyson will doubtless rank as the greatest poet of a great age—perchance as one of the immortals, for some fames cannot die! and who can tell with the growing glamour of time whether Somersby rectory, if preserved whilst yet there is the opportunity, may not come to be a place of pilgrimage even as is Stratford-on-Avon? The latter spot Americans love to call “Shakespeare’s town,” as they delight to term England “the old home”; will it ever be that Somersby will be called “Tennyson’s village”? The best memorial of the great Victorian poet would be to religiously preserve his birthplace intact as it now is, and was in the poet’s youth; better, far better to do this little to his memory than to erect statues in squares or streets, or place stained-glass windows in cathedrals or churches—these can be produced any day! but his birthplace, overgrown with memories and with the glamour of old associations clinging to it, if by any chance this be lost to us it can never be replaced, neither prayers nor money could do it. Gold cannot purchase memories!

The church of Somersby is small but it is picturesque (in my eyes at any rate), and has the charm of unpretentiousness; you may admire a grand cathedral, but a humble fane like this you may love, which is better. The Christian religion was born of humbleness! The infant Saviour in the lowly manger is ever greater than His servant, a lordly bishop in a palace! So a simple, earnest service in such an unadorned church appeals to me infinitely more, brings the reality of true religion nearer to my heart, than the most elaborate ritual in the most magnificent cathedral (which merely appeals to the senses), as though God could only be approached through a pompous ceremonial with the aid of priestly intercession, all of which

Seems to remove the Lord so far away;
The “Father” was so near in Jesus’ day.

Ceremonial belongs properly to paganism, not to Christianity!