HISTORY OF WISBECH, CHAPTER I. Ancient and Modern Aspect of the Fens. THE fens differ so materially from the other parts of the kingdom, that a short notice of their character, both ancient and modern, may not be uninteresting to the general reader. These wide districts were probably, in their first state, a portion of the sea, or a large extent of sand, liable to be covered with the tides; but as they, in time, became silthed up, the waters left them entirely, when grass, and the first weeds of nature, began gradually to overspread the alluvial soil, which was afterwards, it is supposed, covered with one vast forest. Nothing authentic however on this point has been handed down to this remote age, and the only knowledge we can gather, is from the few and unconnected remarks of the general historian, or the researches of the industrious antiquary; whose labors, as far as they are applicable to our subjects, we shall notice more at length in the succeeding Chapter, where we propose to enter, with greater minuteness, into the history of the Fens. B The aspect, which the country formerly presented even in the height of Summer, was desolate in the extreme. Long sweeping plains and a waste of waters, with here and there a cultivated spot to relieve the wide and bleak uniformity, was all that met the eye, save where a watermill shadowed the distance, or a thin tapering spire, with its little consecrated pasture around it, seemed like an Oasis in the barren desert, only serving to make the mind more sensible of the cheerless scene around it. The few trees that could thrive in such a soil were generally scattered round some village or farm-house, and even these stood fixed and withering, with scarcely a shade of foliage upon their branches. The village church often appeared among the open fields so bleak and unprotected, that the mind might, without effort, conceive it some useless relic of the past, left for the elements to sport and play around its loneliness; while the sun, that enlivens and beautifies almost every other landscape, seemed here, from the dreary objects which he enlightened, to produce a sickly głow, as if he scorned to look lovingly on such uncouth desolation. When the traveller first descended from the higher country into these marshy wilds, they must have appeared extremely desolate; and as he contrasted them with the delightful landscapes, which he had left, he must have found it difficult to have mingled the idea of existence with such a solitude of prospect. Not a hill of the most inconsiderable magnitude was to be seen. in all the long distance. Cottages, or rather huts, roofed with reeds, were thinly interspersed over the scene, vast trails of smoke would frequently be perceived sus pended for miles along the country,* and the view was only terminated by the horizon on the one hand, or the distant heights of the upland country on the other. Where we now see the laborer and the husbandman busied in their cheerful occupations, then was only to be seen some miserable object, gathering the rush and sedge, or collecting peat to cheer the loneliness of his wintry night. This scene must, in some measure, have partaken of the indescribably lonesome and still character of the American Prairie; but was without its stern sublimity and majestic grandeur of rugged surface; perhaps Holland bore a more striking resemblance to it, for black stagnant waters, a continued lifelessness of aspect, and obnoxious humidity of atmosphere were common both to the Isle of Ely and the Netherlands. Both countries too were subject to rapid and violent deluges, that rooted up the soil, and laid vegetation prostrate. The flood often came so unexpectedly, that the farmer had scarcely time to preserve his cattle from its ravages, and cottages were swept away by its wild force. Frequently on the approach of these floods, the bell of the parish church was rung at irregular intervals to sound an alarm, while boats were used to convey the people from house to house. † What could be more desolate than a scene like this! To view the uncontroled waters raging over the fields, and round the lately * The practice of burning the land for cultivation is still continued in the lower district of the fens. + This circumstance has taken place at Thorney, within the memory of some of its oldest inhabitants. tenanted habitations, and to hear the voice of a sudden sea breaking where the corn waved in harvest and the cattle grazed in Spring! Pale mothers then Wept without hope, and aged heads struck cold By agues trembled like red autumn leaves; And infants moaned and young boys shrieked with fear. Whom the day languished to look on, lay On the wet earth and wrung their drenched hair. Every road became impassible, and the whole land seemed as if it would have become again mingled with the Ocean; sea-gulls hovered in the air, and the wild duck again sought its deserted hiding place. The traveller must have been also not more forcibly surprised than disappointed by the absence of the songsters of the groves; here, scarcely a note of melody was ever heard; or, if heard, was of that pensive and companionless wildness, that awoke feelings of sadness rather than of joy. The shy bittern stalked over the common, the lapwing screamed in the dull air,* the water fowl was seen hurrying with a timid yet rapid step to its swampy retreat, and the gigantic Heron cumbrously working its way through the storm. We may suppose the poet had some such scene in his mind, when he composed the following beautiful and appropriate lines: * Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Goldsmith. TO A WATER FOWL.* Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Seeks't thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, There is a power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,— Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest * Written by William Cullen Bryant, an American poet of considerable talent and taste; the following lines from Thomson, are however as expressive of our subject. The cormorant on high |