COUNTRY QUIETUDE.

49

the gurgling and plashing of water, the gentle rustling of the leaves of windblown trees, the soft murmur of standing corn just stirred by the breeze, the bleating of sheep, the lowing of cattle, are all soothing to the ear; indeed they serve as a foil to accentuate the general quietness, to make the stillness more profound; but the busy, fussy, clattering and harsh din of machinery is the very antithesis of reposefulness, steam and machinery seem wholly out of place in the green meadows and pleasant country fields.

I think that on no stage of our drive were we so impressed as on this with the wonderful variety of colour we observed on every hand, not only of flowers, both wild and garden-grown, but of the fields, and trees, and hedgerows; the old buildings, too, with their time-tinted walls and lichen-laden roofs, delighted us, the rich warm red hue of the tiles contrasting charmingly with the cool greens around. The may was out late, and so this June we saw it in all its fragrant freshness and fulness; the chestnut trees were doing their best to rival the may, and the many creepers of various kinds that seemed to have their home and flourish on every bit of old building abounded in blossoms of yellow and red, of white and purple; familiar by sight most of these, though some were strange, but of the names of the majority I must, to my shame, confess my scandalous ignorance. Fortunately, however, beauty does not depend upon nomenclature, and my sad want of botanical knowledge did in no measure deprive me of the full enjoyment of their loveliness.

The little cottage gardens by the

way, how gay

E

they looked with their bright homely flowersdearer far to me from old association and long familiarity than the rarest productions of the rich man's greenhouse. I am not of those who despise a flower because it is common; a wild primrose nestles nearer to my heart than does the aristocratic rose, beautiful and sweet of perfume though the latter be.

The landscape, too, was full of colour, the meadows were golden and silver with buttercups and daisies, here and there we noticed fields splashed with the glowing yellow of wild mustard, others were crimson with blossoming clover, the dainty green of the young corn enhanced the showy scarlet of the wild poppy, and in the tangled hedgerows we saw now and again the harmless gold of the everblooming gorse mingled in a rare harmony with other plants and countless many-tinted wild flowers that thrive, uncared for and unheeded, by the dusty wayside. It was all sunshine and cheerful colouring, and yet there are to be found people who live in less favoured spots in the world, who boldly assert that England is a dull, dispiriting, colourless land, a land all of greys and greens, with sad skies and little sunshine. Surely there are some who are wilfully blind! I pity the man who can travel through rural England and see nothing but dull greens and sombre greys. As for sunshine, well, I must own that perhaps we could do with more of it, though personally I love our English cloud-decked sky and would not exchange it for one of Italian blue, with nothing to vary its monotonous serenity save the sun in its daily round. To those who have ever

THE SIGN OF THE WHITE HART.

51

studied it, the scenery of cloud-land is no less lovely and diversified than than scenery terrestrial. It is infinitely changeful and full of interest, but who regards the sky above, that is free to all, and whose beauties cost nothing to behold save an upward glance?

Witham we found to be a pleasant neat little town, much to-day as it was in the old coaching times, unaltered, unimproved, delightfully unprogressive; a compact place, not straggling about purposelessly as so many provincial towns have a way of doing. As we drove along we were attracted to the White Hart Inn by its inviting outside appearance, which spoke as it were a welcome, nor were we disappointed in our expectations. Inns have their characteristic features as well as human beings, and the experienced traveller is seldom deceived who trusts to their general external look. We found at the White Hartwhich, by the way, still retains on its front the old legend, 'post horses'-a most obliging landlord and a civil motherly landlady, and we were made very comfortable at this homely hostel. In our little sitting-room we observed that a bell-pull hung from the ceiling just over the table, a convenient arrangement that still obtains at some old-fashioned houses, permitting the traveller to ring for anything without having to get up from his seat.

The sign-board of our inn was uncommon in one respect; it had a representation of a white hart, painted and with gilded collar and chain, the animal being cut out so that its contour showed

silhouetted against the sky. It will be remembered (I say this, though I was not aware of the fact till an antiquarian friend mentioned it to me) that the white hart, with a golden collar and chain, once a very favourite and still a frequent inn sign, was the badge of Richard II., which badge was worn by all his courtiers and adherents. It was adopted from his mother, whose cognizance was a white hind.

Besides our comfortable unpretentious hostel, in the main street of Witham is another picturesque, five-gabled, two-storied old inn, built ever so many years ago the very roadway, we noticed, has been raised since it was first erected-one of those oldtime inns that, alas! are, everywhere throughout the land, being gradually improved away to make room for the more ambitious and less comfortable modern hotel.

I got my sketch-book out and made a careful drawing of this bit of ancient architecture, taking my stand on the opposite side of the way (close to a butcher's shop, if I remember aright). As a fair sample of the kindness and consideration that I met with everywhere and from all those whom I came across on the journey, I may mention that the butcher, seeing me standing there, courteously brought out a chair and offered it to me. It was a thoughtful act of civility on his part, that proved him, though a butcher, to be as well a gentleman ; moreover he did not peer over my shoulder to see what I was doing, and make remarks as to my sketching, as people often do, nor deem such action rude. Whilst I was at work another inhabitant

AN OLD TUDOR MANSION.

53

of the place, a chemist, came up, who said that he dabbled a little in photography and that if I would care for it he would be most pleased to give me a photograph of the place that he had taken. I thanked him for his kindness and promised to call at his shop for the picture; this was another thoughtful little attention from a perfect stranger.

On calling the next morning for the photograph we had a long chat with the chemist, who learning that we were on a driving tour told us of the very interesting old Tudor embattled mansion of Faulkbourne Hall, two miles off, which he had photographed. We determined at once to profit by the unexpected information, and see the ancient hall, the more especially as he said that it was supposed to be the finest specimen of a Tudor brick inhabited house in the country. We did not rely wholly upon his descriptions, for the photographs of the place that he showed us plainly proved what a picturesque and grand specimen of building it was.

I may, perhaps, here remark that much that was best worth seeing on our outing was brought to our notice in some such wholly unexpected manner. Indeed, this visit to the chemist at Witham suggested to us the idea that there would be nothing lost upon arriving at a country town by our going at once to the local photographer, ostensibly with the purpose of purchasing views, but in reality to learn if there was anything of interest near at hand of which we were unaware. Generally we found if there were any noteworthy ruins, curious old house, remarkable scenery, or anything out of the common