Chapter II

Memorial of a great battle--An ancient fire-cresset--Free
feasting!--Country quiet--Travellers’ tales--Hatfield--An
Elizabethan architect--An author’s tomb--Day-dreaming--Mysterious
roadside monuments--Great North Road _versus_ Great Northern
Railway--Stevenage--Chats by the way--Field life--Nature as a
painter--Changed times.

Leaving Barnet, we soon reached a bit of triangular green enlivened by a pond that was just then monopolised by geese; here, where the old and formerly famous “Parliamentary and Mail Coach Turnpike” to Holyhead diverges from the almost equally famous Great North Road of the pre-railway days, stands a gray stone obelisk that challenges the attention of the passer-by, and is inscribed with history thus:

Here was
Fought the
Famous Battle
Between Edward
the 4th. and the
Earl of Warwick
April the 14th.
Anno
1471.
In which the Earl
Was defeated
And Slain.

I regret to have to record that immediately below this inscription, cut also in the stone, and in the same kind and size of lettering, is the obtrusive warning notice, so over-familiar to nineteenth-century eyes, “Stick no Bills.” What bathos this!

Here at Hadley the ancient church tower is surmounted by a rare and interesting relic of the never-returning past in the shape of an iron cresset or fire-beacon. The last time that this was used seriously was in 1745, during the scare occasioned by the Stuart rising in the North. The story goes that at the late hour in the evening when the beacon was lighted, a large party from London, who had been feasting at the “Red Lion” at Barnet upon the best that mine host could lay before them, all rushed out during the excitement and quite forgot to return and pay their reckoning! A curious example of forgetfulness caused by excitement, as the fact that their bill remained unpaid never appears to have occurred to any of the party in after days! This is a sample of one of the stories of the road that, improved upon and embellished to fancy, the coachmen of the past used to entertain their passengers with; there was hardly a house, and certainly very few inns, on the way but had some little incident, history, or tradition connected with it; these latter afforded the jehus of the period (past-masters in the art of embroidering fiction upon fact) plenty of raw material for the production of their wonderful fund of anecdotes. My grandfather, who had travelled a good deal by coach in his early life, said that the virtue of these stories lay not so much in the matter as in

[Sidenote: _AN ANCIENT BEACON_]

the inimitable way in which they were told; but therein is the art of story-telling--the craft of making much out of simple materials.

The primitive mode of signalling events by beacon had this serious drawback, that, should any one beacon by accident or set purpose be set alight, needless alarm was forthwith spread throughout the land, and no amount of care in watching the various collections of piled-up wood and other inflammable material could, experience proved, prevent mischievous or designing persons from sometimes surreptitiously lighting them; on the other hand, when they were lighted legitimately, possibly fraught with warning of great import to the State, sudden fogs and storms occasionally prevented the message from speeding on its way. It must have been both a picturesque and a thrilling sight in “the brave days of old” for the expectant watchers on some commanding eminence to observe the progress of the blazing beacons, as one answered the other from height to height, the ruddy glare of the fiery signals gleaming plainly forth against the darkness of the night.

On from Hadley to Hatfield we had an excellent road, that led us through a prettily wooded and pleasantly undulating country. As we drove along, rejoicing in the pure sweet air and rural quietude after the smoke-laden atmosphere and noise of town, the sunshine kept struggling through the gray clouds overhead, and great gleams of golden light came and went, warming and brightening up the little world around us, and enhancing the natural beauty of the scenery by the varied effects they produced on the landscape. A gleamy day is a picture-making and picture-suggesting day, as artists full well know. By the time we reached Hatfield the sun above had obtained complete mastery of the situation, and was doing his best to make all things below pleasant for us.

At Hatfield we pulled up at another “Red Lion,” and there we elected to rest a while and “refresh the inner man,” as the country-paper reporters have it, for our halt at Barnet was solely for the benefit of our horses. In the coffee-room we found a party of four gentlemen lunching; laughing and talking, their conversation was carried on in so loud a tone of voice that, willing or unwilling, we could not help hearing nearly all they said; their jovial jokes they made public property, and the general good-humour and enjoyment of the party was quite infectious. Manifestly they had no fear of strangers overhearing their tales and talk, which rather surprised us, as sundry anecdotal reminiscences of famous personages were freely related, which, if one could only have felt sure of their veracity, would have been most entertaining. It was indeed a right merry, possibly an inventive, and certainly a rather noisy, quartet. Truly the various people that the road-traveller comes in contact with from time to time often dispute interest with the scenery. As Sir Arthur Helps says, “In travel it is remarkable how much more pleasure we obtain from unexpected incidents than from deliberate sight-seeing,” and it certainly appears to me that a driving tour specially

[Sidenote: _ARTIST AND AUTHOR_]

lends itself to meeting with incidents. Such an informal and unusual way of wandering puts you as a rule on a friendly, companionable footing with everybody you meet: people take an interest in your journey, they confide in you and you in them, there is a sort of freemasonry about the road that has its attractions, you seem to belong to the countryside, to be a part and parcel of your surroundings for the time being, in strong contrast with the stranger suddenly arriving by the railway from somewhere far away. He is brought, the driving tourist comes--a distinction with a difference!

* * * * *

But to return to the coffee-room of our inn. Amongst the anecdotes that were forced upon our attention, one still remains in my memory, and this I think worth repeating as a fair sample of the rest, and because it deserves to be true, though possibly it is not, or only in part; however, here it is, and I trust if any one of that merry company should by chance read this, they will pardon the liberty I have taken--or else be more careful of their conversation for the future in public! The story is of a perfectly harmless nature, and characteristic of the parties concerned, or I would not repeat it. It appears then that one day Carlyle was making a first call upon Millais at his fine mansion in Palace Gate. After looking around the sumptuous interior, Carlyle presently exclaimed, in his gruff manner, “What! all from paint?” Millais made no reply at the moment, but as his guest was leaving he quietly remarked, “By the way, what a reputation you’ve got, Carlyle--and all from ink.”

One anecdote begets another, and the foregoing distantly reminds me of a story of Turner that came to me through a private source, which therefore I do not believe has got into print yet--but I may be mistaken. Once upon a time then--as the fairy stories begin, for I am not certain about the exact date, and do not care to guess it--a certain art patron demanded of Turner the price of one of his pictures, with a view to purchasing the same, and deeming that Turner asked rather a large sum, he jokingly exclaimed, “What, all those golden guineas for so much paint on so much canvas?” To which the famous artist replied, “Oh no, not for the paint, but for the use of the brains to put it on with!” and I think the artist scored.

Now I am wandering again, but not by road, as I set out to do, and instead of enjoying the pleasant scenery and fresh air, I am wasting the time indoors chatting about people. Let us get into the open country again, and before we start on the next stage, there will be just time to stroll round and take a glance at the fine old Jacobean pile of Hatfield House, a glorious specimen of the renaissance of English architecture that vividly recalls the half-forgotten fact that once we were, without gainsaying, an artistic people; for no one but a great artist could have designed such a picturesque and stately abode, two qualities not so easy to combine as may be imagined.

It is a most singular fact that the name of the architect of this majestic mansion is not known; but the building so distinctly reminds me of the work of John Thorpe that I have no hesitation in putting it down to his creative genius. He was beyond all doubt the greatest architect of the Elizabethan age; it was he who designed the glorious mansions of Burleigh “by Stamford town,” Longford Castle, Wollaton Hall, most probably Hardwicke Hall, Holland House, and many other notable and picturesque piles, not to forget Kirby in Northants, now, alas! a splendid ruin, which we shall visit on our homeward way.

[Sidenote: _THE STONES OF ENGLAND_]

Writing of the stately homes of England, it seems to me that the stones of England have their story to tell as well as the “Stones of Venice,” over which Ruskin goes into such raptures. Why is it ever thus, that other lands seem more attractive than our own; wherein lies the virtue of the far-away? Who will do for Old England at our own doors what Ruskin has so lovingly done for Venice of the past? What a song in stone is Salisbury’s splendid cathedral, with its soaring spire rising like an arrow into the air; what a poem is Tintern’s ruined abbey by the lovely Wye-side; what a romance in building is Haddon’s feudal Hall; what a picture is Compton Wynyates’ moated manor-house! and these are but well-known specimens, jotted down hastily and at haphazard, of countless other such treasures, that are scattered all over our pleasant land in picturesque profusion, but which I will not attempt to enumerate catalogue fashion.

Between Hatfield and Welwyn I find no mention of the country in my note-book, nor does my memory in any way call it to mind; the scenery, therefore, could not have impressed us, and so may be termed of the uneventful order. At the sleepy little town of Welwyn we came upon its gray-toned church standing close by the road, and as we noticed the door thereof was invitingly open, we called a halt in order to take a peep inside. We made it a point this journey never to pass by an ancient church, if near at hand, without stepping within for a glance, should happily, as in this case, the door be open; but with one or two rare exceptions we did not go a-clerk-hunting,--that sport is apt to pall upon the traveller in time, unless he be a very hardened antiquary or ardent ecclesiologist. It was an open or closed door that generally settled the point for us, whether to see a certain church or leave it unseen! We were not guide-book compilers, we did not undertake our journey with any set idea of “doing” everything, we took it solely for the purpose of spending a pleasant holiday, so we went nowhere nor saw anything under compulsion. I think it well to explain our position thus clearly at the start, so that I may not hereafter be reproached for passing this or that unvisited; nor now that our outing is over do I believe we missed much that was noteworthy on the way--nothing, indeed, of which I am aware; though, by some strange caprice of fate, it ever seems that when the traveller returns home from a tour, should anything escape his observation thereon, some kind friend is certain to assure him that just what he failed to see happened to be the very thing of the whole journey the best worth seeing! Indeed, this incident so

[Sidenote: _A SELF-APPOINTED GUIDE_]

regularly re-occurs to me, that I have become quite philosophical on the subject! There is no novelty about the same experience often repeated; the only rejoinder it provokes on my part is a smiling “Of course,” or a mild, remonstrating “Oh! I left that for another day.”

On entering Welwyn church, we encountered a talkative old body; why she was there I cannot say, for she was apparently doing nothing, and this is no tourist-haunted region with guides of both sexes on the watch and wait for the unwary; but there she was, a substantial personage not to be overlooked. At once she attached herself to us, and asked if we had come to see Dr. Young’s tomb--“him as wrote the _Night Thoughts_.” We meekly replied that we did not even know that he was buried there. “Well,” she responded, “now I do wonders at that, I thoughts as how everybody knew it.” From the superior tone in which she said this, we felt that she looked down upon us as ignoramuses--such is the lot of the traveller who does not know everything! Then she pointed out with a grimy finger--assuming the aggravating air of one who has valuable information to impart, and will impart it whether you will or no--a marble slab put up to the memory of the worthy doctor (I presume he was a worthy doctor) on the south wall of the nave. Having duly inspected this, our self-appointed guide suddenly exclaimed, still maintaining her amusing didactic manner, “He’d much better have gone to bed and slept like a good Christian than have sit up o’ nights a-writing his thoughts.” We weakly smiled acquiescence, though perhaps it was hardly a fair thing to do, for we had to confess to ourselves that we had not even read the book in question. “Have you?” we queried. “Lor’ bless you, sir,” replied she, still in an authoritative tone of voice, “books is all rubbish, I never reads rubbish; give me the papers with some news in ’em, I says, that’s the reading for me,” and with this we took our hurried departure. We have taught the people to read, which is a most excellent thing, but, from all my experience, the country folk prefer newspapers, frequently of a trashy nature, to solid books; for the present they devour the “penny dreadful,” whilst the cheap classic remains unread!

Out of Welwyn the road mounted slightly, and to our left we passed a large park; the sun’s rays glinting down between the big tree-trunks therein sent long lines of golden light athwart the smooth sward, and the lengthening shadows suggested to us that the day was growing old, and that, unless we wished to be belated, we had better hasten on. Then followed a pleasant stretch of wooded country, the west all aglow with the glory of the setting sun, whilst a soft grayness was gradually spreading over the east, blotting out all trivial details, and causing the landscape there to assume a dim, mysterious aspect; in that direction the scenery might be commonplace enough in the glaring light of mid-day--possibly it was, but just then under that vague effect it looked quite poetical, and by giving our romantic fancies full rein we could almost have imagined that there lay the enchanted forest of

[Sidenote: _A ROADSIDE ENIGMA_]

fairy-tale renown. A little occasional romancing may be allowed on a driving tour; he is a dull and unpoetic soul, indeed, who never indulges in a moment’s harmless day-dreaming now and again!

Soon the slumberous, unprogressive little town of Stevenage came in view, and just before it, on a green space to the right of the road, we espied six curious-looking, grass-grown mounds all in a row, like so many pigmy green pyramids. We afterwards learnt that these are supposed to be Danish Barrows; but learned antiquaries, like most of their kind, are not all agreed upon this point, though the majority hold to the Danish theory. Still, Danish or not, there they stand to challenge the curiosity of the observant wayfarer. A roadside enigma that doubtless puzzled our forefathers, and afforded food for discussion when journeying in these parts, the railway traveller misses them and much else besides as he is whirled through the land at a speed that only permits of a blurred impression of fields and woods, of rivers and hills, of church towers, towns, hamlets, and farmsteads--that is, when the train is not rushing through a cutting, or plunging into a darksome tunnel. In a scenic sense between the Great North Road and the Great Northern Railway is a vast gulf!

At the present day, at any rate at the time we were there, these prehistoric relics were serving the undistinguished purpose of a ready-made and somewhat original recreation-ground for the town’s children; for as we passed by we observed quite a number of them climbing up and down the barrows, playing “King of the Castle” thereon, and generally romping over and round about them with much noisy merriment. I really think that these ancient mounds deserve to be better cared for; those things that are worthy of being preserved should be preserved, for antiquity once destroyed can never be replaced; it is too late when a monument of the past has disappeared to discover how interesting it was.

At Stevenage we put up for the night at the “White Lion,” a homely little hostelry, where we found clean and comfortable, if not luxurious, quarters for ourselves, and good accommodation for our horses, and not being of an exacting nature, were well content. So ended our first long day’s wanderings.

We had seen so much since we left London in the early morning, that we felt it difficult to realise, on the authority of our copy of _Paterson’s Roads_ (last edition of 1829), we had only travelled some thirty-one miles; the precise distance we could not arrive at, since Paterson takes his measurement from “Hick’s Hall,” and we did not start from the site thereof; indeed, exactly where “Hick’s Hall” stood I am not very clear--somewhere in Smithfield, I believe.

Next morning, following the excellent example of the chatty Mr. Pepys, and to borrow his favourite expression, we “awoke betimes,” to find the sunshine streaming in through our windows, whilst a glance outside revealed to us a glorious bright blue sky, flecked with fleecy fine-weather clouds.

[Sidenote: _LEISURELY TRAVEL_]

This cheery morning greeting could not be resisted, so, early though it was, we got up and dressed without any needless delay, and, sketch-book in hand, set forth to explore the place before breakfast, which, however, we took the precaution of ordering to be ready for us on our return, for it is trying for a hungry man to have to wait for his meal! Before going out, however, we paid our usual visit of inspection to the horses, who, we discovered, were having their toilet performed for them, luxurious creatures! though not without much “sishing,” and subdued exclamations of “Whoa! my beauty,” “Steady there now,” “Hold up, can’t yer”--sounds and utterances dear to the hearts of grooms and ostlers. We were glad to note that the horses looked fit and fresh, and not a whit the worse for their previous hard day’s work.

On the road we have always found that it is the pace rather than the distance that “knocks up cattle”; but haste formed no part of our programme, as we travelled to see and enjoy the scenery, not merely to pass through it, to sketch, to photograph, to inspect a ruin, or to do whatever took our fancy at the time; also to chat at our leisure with any one who appeared to be interesting and willing to chat--prepared under those conditions to converse with anybody from a ploughboy to a peer that chance might bring across our path, so that we might learn “how the world wags” according to the different parties’ views.

As Montaigne remarked, “Every man knows some one thing better than I do, and when I meet a stranger therefore I engage him in conversation to find that one thing out.” So we have discovered that even a lightly-esteemed ploughboy, familiar all his life with Nature in her many moods, at home in the fields and hedgerows, could tell us many things we did not know, which are common knowledge to him. A chat with an intelligent ploughboy, for such boys exist, may prove a profitable and interesting experience, for perchance it may be racy of the soil, full of the ways of wild birds and winged things, of the doings of hares, rabbits, weasels, foxes, and other animals belonging to the countryside, and of countless idle-growing things besides; above all, it is genuinely rural, and conveys an unmistakable flavour of the open air.

An intelligent rustic is unconsciously a close Nature-observer, and by listening to what he has got to say, if you can only get him to talk and keep him to his subject, you may make valuable use of the eyes of others who can see, but give small thought to what they see.

The works of White of Selborne and of Richard Jefferies have proved how attractive and refreshing to the town-tired brain are the faithful and simple record of the natural history of the English fields and woodlands, and the descriptions of the charms and beauties of the English country in all its varied aspects. One great value of such writings is that they induce people to search for, and teach them how to seek out, similar beauties for themselves in their everyday surroundings, that they never before so much as imagined to exist. So that truly a new, a costless, and a lasting pleasure in life is opened out to them.

[Sidenote: _A “THOROUGHFARE” TOWN_]

We found Stevenage to be a quiet, neat little town of the “thoroughfare” type, to employ a term much in vogue in the coaching days when describing places consisting chiefly of one long street. Wandering about, we noticed an old building that had manifestly been a hostelry of some importance in the pre-railway period, the archway giving entrance to the stable-yard still remaining. Now the building is converted into a pleasant residence, though, owing to the necessities of its former uses, it stands too close to the roadway to afford that privacy which the home-loving Briton so dearly delights in; which, on the other hand, the average American citizen so heartily dislikes, considering such comparative seclusion to make for dulness, and to savour of unsociability. Such old buildings, converted, wholly or in part, from inns to houses, are to be found frequently along the Great North Road. A stranger, not aware of the fact, might well wonder why those great houses were built with their ample arches in the little village street, and so close upon the roadside.

At one end of the town we found a rather pretty gabled cottage with a high-pitched roof, from which rose a good group of chimneys. This cottage, with its tiny garden railed off from the footpath by a wooden paling, made quite a charming subject for the pencil, and was the first to adorn our sketch-book. Whilst putting a few finishing touches to our drawing, a native came up. An artist at work always seems to have an irresistible attraction for country people. He opened up a conversation by admiring our sketch, though in a qualified manner. He was pleased to say that it was “mighty” pretty, only he preferred a photograph to a drawing any day. He had had a photograph taken of his house lately, and on the photograph you could count every brick on the walls and every tile on the roofs. “Now, that’s what I call a proper kind of picture,--not but that yours is very nice for hand-work”!

This is a very fair specimen of the criticisms that the long-enduring landscape painter has frequently to put up with when at work in the open.

Next our art-critic and photograph-admirer presumed that we must be strangers, as he knew most of the folk round about, but did not remember having “sighted us afore.” We replied that we were. “Now, do you know,” responded he, “I was sure of that”; and seeing no advantage in further continuing the conversation, we hastened off to our inn--and breakfast.

In spite of our early rising, it was ten o’clock before we got “under weigh,” but when one sets out exploring and sketching, to say nothing of gossiping, time flies.

It was one of those rare and perfect days that come only now and then in the year, which, when they come, linger lovingly in the memory for long after. A stilly day of soft sunshine wherein is no glare; overhead great rounded clouds of golden white, shading off into a tender pearly-gray, were sailing slowly across a sea of pure, pale blue,--clouds

[Sidenote: _CLOUD SCENERY_]

ever varying in size and form, so that the eye was involuntarily attracted to the scenery of the sky, as well as to that of the land; for the changeful sky-scape--as Turner, Constable, and other painters have shown--lends a wonderful charm to our English scenery,--clouds that caused vast cool-gray shadows to chase each other in endless succession over the wide countryside, till, space-diminished, the shadows vanished into infinity, where the circling gray of the dim horizon melted into a misty nothingness.

The warmth of the cheerful sunshine was tempered by a soothing southerly wind--a lazy wind that came to us laden with a mingling of fragrant country odours distilled from flower, field, tree, and countless green growing things as it lightly passed them by. It was a day inspiriting enough, one would have imagined, to convert even a confirmed pessimist into a cheerful optimist, and for us it made the fact of simply existing a something to be thankful for!

Manifestly the Fates were kindly disposed towards us. It was no small matter to start forth thus in the fulness and freshness of such a morning, free as the air we breathed, with our holiday only just beginning, its pleasures barely tasted, and positively no solicitude whatever except to reach an inn for the night; in truth, there was no room for the demon Care in our dog-cart, so he was compelled to stay behind “out of sight” and “out of mind.” We were purely on pleasure bent, and we managed very successfully to maintain that part of our programme from the beginning to the end of our tour. Good health means good spirits, and being out so much in the open air, we laid in a plentiful stock of the former. An out-of-door life, such as the one we led, without fatigue, and with a sufficiency of interest to pleasurably engage the attention, is the finest tonic in the world, I verily believe, for mind and body, bracing both up; so that the answer of the happy driving tourist to the doleful query, “Is life worth living?” would be, to employ the schoolboy’s expressive slang, “Very much so.”

After Stevenage we entered upon a pleasantly undulating and purely agricultural and pastoral country, with nothing noteworthy till we came to a neat little village that we made out from our map to be Graveley. Here an unpretending inn, the “George and Dragon” to wit, boasted of a fine wrought-iron support for its sign, doubtless a relic of a past prosperity when this was a much-travelled highway, and the hostelries on the road had the benefit of many customers. We noticed that the painting of the sign, at least in our estimation, was sadly inferior in artistic spirit to the clever craftsmanship displayed in the iron-work supporting it; possibly the sign-board was of old as artistically limned as its support was wrought, but the weathering of years would efface the drawing and colouring, and later and less skilful hands may have renewed the design, whilst, of course, the more enduring iron would still retain its ancient charm of form unimpaired.

The gracefulness and bold curving and twisting of the metal-work that supports and upholds the sign of many an ancient coaching inn had a peculiar fascination for us, and frequently brought our pencil

[Sidenote: _A CONCEIT IN METAL_]

into requisition to record their varied outlines and quaint conceits, that truly splendid specimen of the “Bell” at Stilton--about which I shall have more to say when we arrive there--especially delighting us. At the sign of a certain “White Hart” elsewhere we could not but imagine that the open iron-work above it in the shape of a heart was not accidental, but intended as a play on words in metal, if the expression may be allowed.

After Graveley the road plucked up a little spirit and the scenery improved, just as though it were doing its best to please us. At one point there suddenly opened a fine view to the left, reaching over a vast extent of country bounded by an uneven horizon of wooded hills--hills that showed as a long, low undulating line, deeply blue, but enlivened by touches of greeny-gold where the sunshine rested for a moment here and there; it was as if Nature in one of her lavish moods had washed the horizon over with a tint of ultramarine, “for who can paint like Nature?”--little she recks the quantity or the rarity of the hues she employs, miles upon miles oftentimes, and that for a mere transient effect! To our right also our charmed visions ranged over a wide expanse of wooded plain, so space-expressing in its wealth of distances, the blue of which made us realise the ocean of air that lay between us and the remote horizon, the reality of the invisible!

After the confined limits of the house-bound streets of town, our eyes positively rejoiced in the unaccustomed freedom of roving unrestrained over so much space--a sudden change from yards to miles! I have found from experience what a relief it is for the eye to be able thus to alter its focus from the near to the far-away: the vision like the mind is apt to become cramped by not being able to take a broad view of things. I verily believe that the eyes are strengthened by having the daily opportunity of exercising their full functions; this may be a fanciful belief on my part, but I hold it and write advisedly.

Gradually, as we proceeded, our road widened out, and was bounded on either hand by pleasant grassy margins, that, had we been on a riding instead of a driving tour, would certainly have tempted us to indulge in a canter. These grassy margins used to form part of the hard, well-kept highway when there was room for four coaches abreast at one time thereon. I wonder whether these spare spaces will ever be utilised for cycle tracks?

What, I further wonder, would our ancestors--could they come back to life again, and travel once more along the old familiar roads--think of the new steel-steed, and what would they make of the following notice, appended to the sign of an old inn on the way, which we deemed worthy of being copied?--

Good Accommodation
and
Stabling
for
Cyclists and Motorists.

This brings to mind the truth that lies in the old Latin saying, _Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis_.