Over Fen and Wold

by James John Hissey

COINCIDENCES

Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into the ground,
Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet upon the hound.

Cross’d! for once he sail’d the sea to crush the Moslem in his pride;
Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in which he died.

There truly in Harrington Church is the warrior with his legs crossed, and Harrington is within an easy ramble of Somersby, so doubtless the old church, then possibly “sinking into the ground,” with its tombs and ancient hall, were well known to Tennyson in his youth, and doubtless were lastingly impressed upon his romantic mind. It is just the spot that would impress any one of a poetic temperament even now, but more so then than now, when the church was in pathetic decay, broken down with the burden of centuries! It will not escape notice that Tennyson clings to the old tradition that a cross-legged effigy necessarily represents a crusader. Perhaps it is too much to expect a poet to do otherwise, in spite of the dictum of Dr. Cox (before mentioned) and that of other learned authorities who can find it in their hard hearts to destroy a pleasant bit of picturesque and purely harmless fiction.

From Harrington we returned to Horncastle by a roundabout route, passing through South Ormsby and Tetford, a route that led us through the heart of the wild Wolds, and gave us a good insight into its varied and characteristic scenery. A very enjoyable drive it proved, down dale and over hill, past many-tinted woods, gorgeous in their autumn colouring, through sleepy hamlets, and across one little ford, with a foot-bridge at the side for pedestrians, with the rounded hills bounding our prospect on every hand. Now the hills would be a wonderful purple-gray in cloud shadow, anon a brilliant golden green as the great gleams of sunshine raked their sloping sides, lighting them up with a warm glory that hardly seemed of this world, so ethereal did they make the solid landscape look.

There is a charm of form, and there is also a charm of colour, less seldom looked for or understood; but when one can have the two at their best combined, as in this instance, then the beauty of a scene is a thing to be remembered, to make a mental painting of, to be recalled with a sense of refreshment on a dreary winter’s day when the dark fog hangs thick and heavy like a pall over smoky London. P. G. Hamerton, who, if a poor painter, was an excellent critic, and a clever writer upon art (for, like Ruskin, he had a message to give), remarks, “In the Highlands of Scotland we have mountains, but no architecture; in Lincolnshire architecture, but no mountains.” Well, I feel inclined to retort, Lincolnshire has the architecture—and the Wolds. Truly, the Wolds are not mountains, but picturesquely they will do as a background to architecture even better than mountains. Mountains resent being turned into a mere background to architecture; they are too big, too important, far too assertive; the Wolds are dreamy and distant,—so the very thing.

Many years ago, when they were less known, and little thought of or admired, I spoke of the Norfolk Broads as a land of beauty, worthy of the

PICTURESQUE LINCOLNSHIRE

attention of tourists and artists. I was smiled at for my pains. Now the painter revels in the Broads, and the tourist has discovered them. To-day I say that Lincolnshire is a land of lovely landscapes, and that its scenery is most paintable and picturesque to those who have eyes to see, and this I have endeavoured to show in some of my sketches. Still I expect to be smiled at for the assertion. “Whoever heard of Lincolnshire being picturesque?” I can fancy people saying. The very remark was made to me when I proclaimed the beauty of the Broads. I bide my time, and wonder when artists will discover Lincolnshire. To be honest, however, I have heard of one artist who has discovered it, but he is very reticent about his “find.” Wise man he! If a landscape painter feels he is getting “groovy,” and I fear a good many are, let him come to Lincolnshire! Some centres in the county truly are better for his purpose than others, but I will not particularise. I dread even the remote chance of bringing down the cheap tripper. Once I innocently wrote, and in enthusiastic terms, of the charms of a certain beauty-spot that I thought was strangely overlooked and neglected. Well, I have cause to repent my rashness, and accept the well-intentioned hint thrown out to me by the Saturday Review some few years ago, thus: “Let Mr. Hissey ponder, and in his topography particularise less in the future. Our appeal, we know, places him in an awkward dilemma; but he can still go on the road and write his impressions without luring the speculative builder, etc. ... if he deals delicately with his favourite beauty-spots, and forbears now and then to give local habitation and name.” Most excellent advice! That I have followed it to some extent is, I think, shown by the later remarks of the same critic, who writes of a more recent work of mine: “We are relieved to note that Mr. Hissey does not wax eloquent concerning one of the most beautiful and unspoilt towns in Sussex. He passes through it with commendable reticence.” It is a pleasant experience for a critic and an author to be of one mind; for an author to profit by a critic’s criticisms!

Returning, in due course, to our comfortable quarters at Horncastle, on dismounting from our dog-cart there we noticed an old man standing expectantly in the yard. He was oddly dressed in that shabby-genteel manner that reminded us very much of the out-at-elbows nobleman of the melodrama stage, for in spite of his dress his bearing impressed us; it was dignified. He at once came up to us and exclaimed, “I’ve got something to show you, that I’m sure you would like to see.” I am afraid that we were just a little heated and tired with our long drive and day’s explorations; moreover, we were looking eagerly forward to a refreshing cup of afternoon tea, so that we rather abruptly rejected the advances made; but the stranger looked so disappointed that we at once repented our brusqueness, and said we should be pleased to see what he had to show us. Whereupon he beamed again, and pulling an envelope out of his pocket he extracted therefrom a piece of paper, which he handed to us for our inspection, with a smile. On this we read—