FROM LONDON TO LAND'S END"
MR. HISSEY certainly does good service in bringing to the notice of his tourist countrymen and women the too much neglected beauties of their own land ; and if he would but leave the artist somewhat in the shade, and abandon the mannerisms to which he is so much addicted, we should say his books were very pleasant reading. The most good-natured critic cannot but be irritated by the constant recurrence of cloud-scapes, sea-scapes, and, worse still, hill-scapes and town-scapes, and of such awk- ward combinations as "eye-entranced," " ear-enthralled," " space- expressing," " irregular-roofed," and countless others ; aromatic- laden must surely be a printer's error. The scenery of England is truly such as the writer describes it, of exceeding beauty and variety, and well worthy of more intimate acquaintance and closer study ; but writing of it in these terms does not tend to its better appreciation. Having delivered ourselves of our con- demnatory clauses, we will proceed to show our readers how really enjoyable are most of the contents of the volume, and will speak in the first place, though that is not usual, of the delightful little sketches with which it is illustrated, for the moat part charming characteristic bits from rural scenes, such as an old English farmstead—date 1668—a by-path in the New Forest, an old-time hostel, and a Devonshire lane, while more extended prospects are also well dealt with.
Mr. Hissey is great on the subject of wayside inns, and the comfort and kindliness the traveller who leaves the beaten track will almost invariably meet with therein. It is well to know that so many of these quiet resting-places are still to be met with ; and doubtless it is perfectly true that a far more pleasant, health. giving, and inexpensive holiday can be spent in such quarters, within reach of most enjoyable excursions, than is attainable at most of our sea-side resorts, always supposing that society and its follies are not considered by the holiday-makers the sum of earthly good. And it would seem, too, that lovers of the picturesque are not the only people to be made happy. Curiosity-hunters can still discover treasures occasionally in the shape of quaint pottery, and early-English bracket-clocks, to say nothing of more important finds, such as the antique mirror in its carved and gilded case—supposed to be of Spanish workmanship—picked up for five shillings by Mr. Hissey's servant, who shared in some degree the thetas of his master, though he did not go so far as to enjoy driving across Dartmoor in a storm for the sake of seeing to perfection its wild, weird grandeur. "If this is Dartmoor," qaoth he, very naturally, "I'd rather live somewhere else. Hope there's no more moors in this part of the world, leastways no more Dart-
• On the Boo-Seat, from London to Land's End. By James John Meaty. London: Blolard Bentley and Son.
moors." It was scarcely a safe excursion, by reason of the blinding mists and jagged lightning, to any nothing of violent wind and pitiless hail—better to write about than to experience, in our opinion—and when, on arriving at Tavistock, the ostler spoke of it as nothing, and recommended a trial of the moor under a " Nor'-easter," it is not surprising that his suggestion was declined.
One of the great delights of driving tours is, of course, the being able to choose one's own time and one's own route, with- out what Mr. Riney oddly calls a pre-knowledge of what one is to see ; and accordingly, it was his custom occasionally not even to consult his guide-books, and when he came to cross-roads, to choose simply that which looked the most inviting, a plan that had its objectionable as well as its pleasant side, the road in question being capable of degenerating into a mere congeries of ruts and boulders, or of losing its identity in a wild space of moorland. On one occasion the phaeton and its occupants were following a lane so lengthy as to seem inter- minable, and so narrow that no two vehicles could by possibility pass each other, when a cart and horse hove in sight. The horn was sounded ; what was to be done ? Simply this. The carter dis- mounted, opened a gate, and drove into a field until the carriage had passed, certain spots being, it seems, by common consent, places of refuge for such purposes, the waggon-horses being all furnished with bells, as many as eight to each horse in some cases, to give notice of their approach. These bells are very musical, and the horses like them very much ; one driver told Mr. Hissey that when on one occasion he was in a hurry and had neglected to put them on, the team absolutely refused to stir a step until he equipped them in the usual way. As a rule, Mr. Hissey followed Paterson's Roads, a book still curiously correct, though sixty years old, every cross-road, inn, bridge, river, and stream being net down in it, and short accounts given of the principal things of interest by the way. The traveller by the old coaching-roads finds almost in- variably the ' Red Lion,' the White Hart,' the Green Dragon,' or whatever may be the signboard, offering its hospitality now as in days of yore at the spot indicated, and first-rate hospitality too, according to Mr. Hissey,—good fare, attention, and moderate bills. The old traditions still linger, though fast dying out, and he suggests that it would be well worth while to go round and collect many stories and anecdotes that will soon be lost for ever.
But though it may be true that rural England is so con- servative as to have, upon the whole, undergone but few changes, the contrary is the fact in some parts of it, by Mr. Hissey's own showing,—witness Surrey and Sussex, now so pastoral, and once our " black country ;" and the coal districts that have exchanged their former beauty for money-producing, dreary desolation. He found, also, to his disgust, deodaras, rhododendrons, and laurels planted and looking sadly uncon- genial in the depths of the New Forest, one of our grandest vestiges of former times, a spot that has, as Mr. Hissey dis- covered, its regular frequenters, who go there every year and keep up quite a freemasonry amongst themselves,—" a forest-man," or "not a real forest-man," stands with these people for approval or the reverse. The writer seems to have enjoyed that part of his tour as much as any ; bat when he reaches Dorsetshire, that "wild hilly country of glorious purple distances and beautiful scenery," he asks why it is that this part of England is so little appreciated, and not named with Derbyshire, Devonshire, and Yorkshire as possessing many attractions. Its hilliness may not improbably militate against it, for not to every one would it be agreeable to spend each day in mounting or descending such long, steep gradients. But our author is right in standing up as he does for the great variety within small compass to be met with in English scenery, and in defending it from the false charges of greyness and dullness brought against it by inartistic souls :— "Surely," he says, "a land in which the gorse, the broom, and purple heather grow, to say nothing of the crimson clover, the scarlet poppy, the yellow of the spreading wild mustard—the harebell and hyacinth making the woodland carpets in spring as blue as the sky above—and countless other plants and flowers I could name,—surely, as I have said, a land wherein these flourish does not deserve the taunt of being colourless I do not know anything liner in its way—and it is by no means a rare effect in our mountain lands— than a hillside covered with the mingled blossoms of gorse and heather, lighted np by the noonday eon; a perfect miracle of colour, a glowing harmony of purple and gold, regal tints these."
In like manner, Mr. Hissey is ready to run a tilt for the hop against the vine, and for our magnificent cloud-pictures against the monotony of a perpetually blue sky. As to the first of these, are vines close-trimmed and unlovely the only ones he knows P Has he never seen vines that bang in beauteous luxuriance from pillar and from tree, and cover the trellised walk with delightful shade P Without attempting to deny the beauty of elondland, most persons would often gladly ex- change it for sunny Southern skies. When the writer speaks of our hedges, however, we are entirely with him,—there is no denying that they add a charm to certain landscapes not to be found where they are wanting. Perhaps one of the chief pleasures of a tour like this of Mr. Hissey's, made in such leisurely fashion, may be said to consist in its opportunities for making acquaintance with types of character and picking up odd bits of information. There may not be ranch in the fact that Bath-bricks are made at Bridgewater, and nowhere else in the world, and most likely few people would care to know it; but it was droll to hear the Battle of Dorking believed in, and discussed as a real engagement, and a novelty to find in the guise of so prosaic a personage as a commercial traveller a man who took his wife, as well as his samples, with him year after year, in a roomy waggonette, nearly all over England, and who declared he would not change places with any man living. As for the sailor at the Lizard who spoke about the shipwreck, he is but one among thousands of brave fellows who have risked their lives and the happiness of their families to save others
Yes, none of ns ever thought as how we should see home again, but we could not stand idle on shore, and not have a try to save them poor chaps. We would never have been happy men again if we had. Die ? Well, we meet all of us die some day, and I don't know as how a man can die better. Fear ? I never felt no fear,' and here his voice faltered ever so little; `only when I thought of the misses and the little ones asleep at home—God bless 'em !—did my heart fail me, just for a moment like ; but there ain't much time for thinking on such occasions, I can tell yer.'"
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