Authors: Adam Thorpe
that many were starving. The said Rector Willington answered, that he & his fellows must leave at once, but here is 3 Sovereigns, and he would be seeing to their requests. I staid by the fireplace until the Mob left. As I served the Rector Willington with some kidneys, he said to me that I must not go out this day, and that he hoped the Church wd not be ent
the dregs remain: I stir them to a kind of cloud of comprehensibility, but their minds are slow and stupid, and they slouch, as it were, without a burden on them but one of sloth. My clerk tells me they are weak from hunger – but this cannot be in such provident country, of rich tilth, when the very Hedgerows have been evidently dripping with fruit. But O this wretched
winter!
– I am feeling pinched and vexed today, from an incident earlier: some children, seated before what I perceived to be a tumbled-down cot – but was on closer inspection teeming with life as a corpse teems with maggots – on the outer edge of the village, whence I was bent on exercising my legs after a crabbed term of duty at my desk – these ragamuffins (all of the most swarthy hue, like sweeps – it appears to me this whole village is inked in dirt) followed me at a distance until I reached the first ridge of the hill, whereupon they stirred themselves to a clamour of the most injudicious calumny against my person, as being knock-kneed – scrawny-necked – the smallest pig in the litter – a ‘carroty-pawled cadger’ and other descriptions I will not blush you with, all in a dialect so ripe as to be barely comprehended but by those, like myself, forced to become adepts thro’ no fault of their own – and upon my waving my walking-cane at them, knob-first, and calling them to be Off, a large fellow joined them, of as Outdoor an appearance as all the labourers here, but somewhat more bent in the back, with filthy black hands – & who stood and watched me for a moment, with a hand upon the shoulders of the Riff-raff about him, as (I thought) a prelude to cajoling and punishment – but who then emitted a chortle that kindled the like in his brood (for I guessed he was the Father) and I was forced to beat an ignominious retreat over the Ridge and out of sight, where I was taken with a small Fit – for I have never been able to withstand Mockery of any sort, but crumble like a Biscuit in hot tea. Such topsy-turviness makes me fear for the Country, as if every weedy word of these inflammatory pamphlets have seeded themselves deep in the fallow hearts of the peasant classes, and by dint of one’s mere presence one Ploughs them up willy-nilly to the surface – and thus may be imagined the Harvest to come. Does it rain the like in Matlock? You might paint indoors, if so. Here we tear up turf – these sodden slopes be our canvas – the foamy Horse is shaped so:
I put the straw beneath the Plough. It was not I who put it to the flame. I don’t know who did. Then the pieces of the Machines were placed in a heap in the Court & we
down the widest ride yet I fell from the damned beast into
candles on the table. They were took when the Mob departed. About ten men staid the main of the day, demanding of me beer & bread & cheese all the while, until there was none
hurt, bar a laceration upon my arm. My only black-silk coat, with the pearl buttons, is Chalk from collar to tail. I have been baptised, says the good Norcoat, in the veritable sod. But that is little matter when thou, my sweetest love, art in my mind: your letter, that I have kept in my breast pocket, close to my heart, gave me some service this Morning – or rather, the envelope did – as I was taken with a fit of coughing during an Examination – this an effect of the fall, no doubt – and finding my mouth full of Blood, had nowhere to deposit, but bending down behind the desk as if to pick up my pen, that I had knocked to the floor for this purpose – took the letter from my pocket – released it from the envelope – and used that last sweet-scented vessel as my spittoon. The pauper before me was none the wiser through this salvatory Action, tho’
almost night then. There was no moon: I could not see who it was knocking on the Door. A horn was blown and a man made a noise like an owl
all night of thick words like cheese to be cut up, then wake in a sweat, cough
banged on the roof with our hay-forks: there is no upstairs. The
said
Roger Pennell came to the Window and said not to do him any harm & we answered that we would not crush a flower,
O – O my Emily! But to set it down sends my pulse sudden up, & I fear these palpitations – no, I must cease worrying you on the instant – this fearful sight was made hideous by the night’s exertions: I had no sleep – I was too tight in the Chest to lay down & coughed the hours away fearfully but not too much Blood – & our sharp north-east of the last days having turned I thought to exercise myself – at dawn – no faintness – nay, I should have stayed within –
were civil. They broke the drum of the machine with a sledge-hammer, and said it was to make better times. I did not know which men they were
muffled from the mist I assure you, my heart. Suffice to say, as I mounted the opposite slope, & the mist clearing, I turned & saw – but the Rooks upon the ridge above, & their infernal clamour, combined with the sight – & made me flushed – & fair giddy – so that I was forced to sit upon a mossy log, until my wits recovered – that I was not mad
about two hundred & fifty of them. They were carrying flags and a horn was blowing: I saw them tear up me fences upon the crest
to anticipate a thing – & to have it dashed! – but I lack sleep, surely – & these wretched papers, that are too thick, & ever roll from my desk to the floor – but to turn & see such a thing, to have one’s mind turned inside out, as it were
with a rake. I saw about two hundred persons come up from the river towards me over the Lawn
Black, black as tho’ of a sudden cast into deathliness – that mocked the albescence of the frost about it – yet the Eye glittered still! O Emily – ’twas a spectre of the most awful hideousness – that leapt up at me – an effect of sleeplessness – & thin light – O the Squire rails & sobs, yet
John Oadam, with a crown of Bedwine (meaning wild Clymatis) wound about his head like feathers & took from the Hedgerows. When I took the said Prisoner into custody I said to him to remove his Crown of bedwine for it was unseemly, and he was no King, not even a Captain
not bombazeen – as you must don soon if our Expectation is correct, my heart – nay, not cloth but soot – common soot – & cinder! Aye – this – awful change but the work of these secret surly creatures, that no doubt hoarded every crumb of charred stuff out their meagre hearths – & scraped their chimneys free of all ancient & inky detritus – then last night like sheep – nay, like wolves – like wolves silently & cunningly – we all unawares, in our rooms – softly mounting that slope – no doubt the whole Mob of them – man, woman & child – all – with bare hands – Donkeys – pails – I can conjecture only – such awful silent cunning – of wolves – and I coughing upon my bed unawares, all the while – they wd have heard – over the night – across the vale – but half a moon – my coughing, & a frost – such stillness – O Emily – scattered about & trampled with ne’er a creak of pail, not a cry! – till that chalky gleam was blinded – doused – to the last – the very last hoof
answering: ‘No it bee only plumes of seed that must be planted on the wind
HERE ONCE MORE
the transient poetry of nature is most eloquently caught, and I am emboldened to suggest that no brush, wielded by whatever genius, could fashion the rushing water about the rocks with so fine a hand as my humble lens. Though recent rains had swollen the course of the Fogbourne to a considerable degree, this day began clear and fine; but in the time it took to set up my apparatus, the clouds (visible to the left) had altered the light considerably. Passing as they did quite slowly across the sun (being early spring, this was not sufficiently low as to be concealed by the foliage upon the left bank) they imparted a most attractive possibility, that reminded me of none other than the painter Herr Friedrich and his stormy effects. The girl upon the bridge is placed to conceive human variety, but I had a deal of difficulty in persuading her to look into the water, and not at my lens!
The bridge is called Saddle Bridge, and is the southern ‘gate’ into our Village; in rendering a picturesque quality to the subject, its severe state of disrepair serves an ideal purpose, that is naturally lost on those having to clatter across in the dustier world of affairs: indeed, that absent parapet-stone, like a gap in a set of teeth, was reputedly dislodged by nothing heavier than a rook alighting upon it! – causing a coachman a deal of trouble with his reins. The bare poplars upon the right-hand bank assert perspective, and impart a certain grandiosity to the scene, in which the figure of the human might symbolise the fleetingness of our existence. As fleeting, indeed, as the beam of sun that peeped through a slit and silvered the wet rocks in the foreground; an effect one might wait two hours for, and lose in a minute.
Reflections in slow-moving (or still) water, have preoccupied a majority of photographers for quite natural reasons: the beauty of the conception requires merely a stand of trees upon a bank, and favourable light, to succeed – but, it should be cautioned, the result may be as a thousand others. Here, however, the water, upon skipping about the foreground rocks in (as it were) its whitest frocks, takes a tiny plunge and settles, before passing under the darkness of the bridge, into the slow calm that so gratifyingly mirrors, and barely corrugates, that ancient stone arch – to form an O that puts one in mind of gateways, and entrances, and elicits quite other responses from the conventional. And yet, note how the contrary plane of the water surface, highlighted by the glints of leaves and other such matter the river carries upon its bosom, returns the viewer to the strong current of plain reality – which, perhaps, this country girl has averted her gaze from, seeing only fulfilment in the rippling other-world of her fancy!
This may occasion surprise, as I am not given to the artificial posing so beloved of my contemporaries in the field of both plate and canvas. Notice, dear viewer, the abashed and twisted posture of the girl – and the blur that should have been, if ordered circumstances had prevailed, the face of her admirer. No, I did not set up my apparatus with a clatter, then move the limbs of my lovers like so many waxworks, and introduce the boat, whose oars had never before been subject to the young man’s sturdy grip. Why otherwise is there that hazy penumbra about the girl’s hand, caught in the act of wiping away collected moisture from the summer heat (for you have no doubt noted the elms beyond in full leaf, and the absence of smoke from the distant cottage, and the creamy frock) or the man’s foot so ungainly twisted inwards as he leans forward – as if the boat is drifting from the bank and he might lose the touch of his love’s fingers, or topple her into the languid water?
On fine summer days of good light, preferably on a Sunday, when the fever of the week’s activities ceases, and the drone of the plump bumble-bee is the busiest sound above the sigh of the waters by the mill, the clanking of buckets at the well, and the idle chatter of the population at the wayside (or, alas, upon the tavern benches!), then nothing pleases better than to wrap my machine in brown paper, leaving but a slit for aperture, and wander the Village and its environs for human subjects that may be caught without that formality of response, that considered design and self-conscious air, that the posed picture erstwhile involves. Indeed, in this wise we gentler sex have a distinct advantage, for what better use my otherwise cumbersome crinoline, than as a type of black hood or cover? – if pockets be cut into the material, so that the camera may be held within and remain unseen.
Imagine my pleasure, then, when faint murmurings came to me upon the towpath, and on creeping forward what should I have seen to my astonishment, but the oldest and loveliest of all scenes – two lovers in a boat, in the first and most innocent bloom of love: that first courtship which Shakespeare and all our immortal poets have, at their most exquisite and poignant, immortalised for the world to cherish. May I add my own small reed upon the altar, with this picture, which has as its protagonists not the Illyrian lords and ladies but the rustics of Arden. Or – to be more prosaic and (in the true manner of this art) precise – two of the labouring class, whose vessel is a craft belonging to the butcher and renowned for its leaking qualities, that has soaked the hem of my own dress before now (it serves as the general
factotum
for the Village at a penny a time): With (I might say) only a moment’s hesitation, I plucked this bloom in its full glory – or rather (as might be conceived from the girl’s attitude) in its ‘crumpled bud’ phase, for Silvius appeared distinctly unripe in these matters (he is, I later ascertained, the eldest son of the harness maker, and she a horseman’s daughter – though whether yet happily bridled is not for me to say).
This part of Ulverton is called of old ‘the Vanners’ – for what reason I cannot discover. Bottom Bridge is just concealed by the verdant curve; though mediaeval in origin, it is little more than a footbridge, of partly wooden structure, and is soon to be replaced, thus removing the reliance of carriages on the oft-flooded ford beside it. I made several attempts to photograph this bridge, but
none
was successful. It is said, in the less enlightened corners of our parish, that long ago it was the haunt of a woman, whose love for a man (a departed seaman) went unrequited: until, after many years of waiting upon its boards, she donned widow’s weeds, threw herself from the rail, and quickly drowned. My lack of success was no doubt due, in the view of these credulous folk, to the woman’s ghostly presence – that blacked out the plates.
The posing of large groups should present no special difficulties, if it is remembered by the enthusiastic photographer that heads and hands are forever eager to make their mark and ruin the picture in fuss and needless business, especially where head supports are undesirable. Long exposure is necessary for full detail: it is to be noted here, for instance, that the gold buttons of the footman (fourth from left) are exactly rendered; for the occupation of this gentleman means that the frigidity of good posing presents him with no difficulties, used as he is to ‘standing guard’. The plump figure slightly to the front is the steward: his stovepipe has exaggerated the trembling of his head (the result of an injury received, I was informed, as a drummer boy at Waterloo) and I might, if I were (God willing!) to repeat the exercise, request that this good man remove the offending headwear. On the either extremity I have turned the ladies (parlourmaids only) inwards, so that the eye is drawn to the centre of the group, thence to the magnificent copper beeches behind, and so to the house. On the extreme left the edge of the lake might be regarded as a distraction, being heightened by the two swans, but such a picturesque detail could hardly be rejected, and the weighty stature of the house supersedes all else. I do not know what the faint figure in the extreme rear of the picture was doing, for I did not notice him at the time: it must be stressed, that the photographer on this sort of commission must make as sure as possible that the area within the camera’s purview is cleared of distractions.
The large laurel hedge to the right, beyond the first beech, is home to a curious, and apparently veracious, legend – though I have heard other versions: a humble shepherd, by the name of William, employee to the Chalmers family in the middle years of the last century, would hide within the said shrubbery in order to view secretly his adored mistress. His distraction eventually forcing him to sea, he ended his days under the lash of an overseer’s whip upon a sugar plantation – his visage being so darkened by his downland office, that he was taken for a black in those merciless times. Ulverton House is a fine example of the work of Sir John Vanbrugh, though the Gothic hall on the right is a recent addition. The gardens were laid out by the renowned William Kent, but have undergone numerous minor alterations since that date. A Royal visit, by our own sovereign, was made here a few years past, and it was for that reason the terrace was hung with thirty Venetian-glassed wrought-iron lamps, the fine detail of which is fully visible in this picture, despite the distance from the lens. The foreground distortion of the lawn is, I need hardly explain, owing to the wide angle of the subject.
I might add that the somewhat surly expression of the assembled group (in particular the two stout gardeners with their lawn-mowing machine on the right) may be explained not only by the difficulty of retaining a smile for some minutes, but also by a cold East wind that was blowing at that time across the lawn, lifting up the odd dry leaf, and affecting detrimentally the sharpness of the large dress of the governess (fifth from right) that has billowed alarmingly – a hazard with all outdoor work. Since most domestics are naturally of a surly disposition, at least in this writer’s experience, I have once again rendered the facts visibly and honestly, and improved nothing.
The enthusiastic photographer must always be on the watch for Nature’s tiny miracles: those effects which urban dwellers lack, and in their smoky habitat grow dulled from, so that the soul
remains
unmoved by simple glories. Herein is the principal task, then, of the new art of the lens: for what other purpose must we serve but the bettering of humankind, in the bringing to its attention that miraculous system that has its being all about us but that we too easily take for granted: for Time hurries us on, and our needs make us blind.
Here is a simple cottage roof – or rather, a detail from that structure – to illuminate and (if I may be so bold) impart instruction of a spiritual nature. The original is to be discovered down a muddy track known as Surley Row, at the northern extreme of the village, and presents, to the uninitiated observer, a most dilapidated and unattractive prospect. But it is in these areas that the photographic artist wanders with most reward: nothing more profoundly salubrious than an old stone wall, nothing richer than a bedraggled plum-tree, nothing more enticing than a raven’s discarded feather, or a dust-filled barn spread with ancient sacks, or a pond wherein the weeds lie dank and idly swaying! For upon these surfaces lies a cornucopia of satisfying differences, that the lens, with its unavailing sincerity, and its unjudging eye, captures upon the plate with a fidelity of draughtsmanship the great Leonardo might have envied. My own soul is moved, not by the ornate sculpture of a great house, or the sighing willows of a great garden – but by the winter branch, the puddled track, a white surf of Shepherd’s Purse in a meadow, the silvery plumes of Traveller’s Joy upon a hedgerow, the frayed hem of a cotter’s shawl. And here, dear viewer, note what riches are to be found if only the eye would seek them out! This is no longer the moss-grown, decaying, vermin-ridden blanket beneath which poverty strives to keep the chill at bay, but a glittering tapestry of loveliness, a source of meticulous meditation, and an assurance that even the humblest and most wretched of abodes is not neglected by the Almighty’s brush.
For the frost being severe that January, I noted how, the thick rime on the roofs having melted, the released water ran down to the very tip of each inclined stalk of straw that had been its host – and hung there, as if the simple thatch was unwilling to release its sudden adornment: when the sun shone, as it did frequently that crisp winter, the whole glittered with a beauty beyond compare, transforming what was sullen and coarse into a sublime perfection. I made several studies of this phenomenon, but I have
included
here the one which, however inadequately, comes closest to capturing that bejewelled effect – as the Dutch painters once caught the sheen of silk, or the exquisite hint of canker in a peach’s bloom, upon their small canvases.
No more suggestive subject than an ancient road, redolent of the past! Here the main highway from our village, where it rises up across Mapleash Down, has served my purpose. If the reader wishes to photograph a road – whether the broad confidence of an old turnpike, or the meddlesome ruts of a track – then choose a day after rain, when the sun is out, but the earth still moist: then see, as here, how the way gleams with a silvery tone, up to the farthest horizon, if the sun be before you, but not so directly in front as to blind. No longer are the pools and brimming ruts a menace to polished shoes, a trial to the scrubbed gig, a curse on the coachman’s coat-tails: to the enthusiastic photographer these silver islands are like beacons to a better world, for they lead the eye of the viewer towards the far hills, the distant copse, the shadowy combe: those horizons that speak of sublimities, though the path be hard and long.
On either side, you may notice, the turf of the downland pasture is lacking in details, and dark: but this is quite deliberate, for the road then shines with greater contrast, its curving nature sinuous as the scales of a serpent. Indeed, keeping in mind the very conditions of light essential to the effect, this
chiaroscuro
can hardly be avoided. The great oak upon the right, known popularly as Sam’s Throne, its trunk conveniently splashed with the chalk, gives weight and interest to the middle distance, which might otherwise be too sparse – while the glint of the iron catch on the gate in the far distance was, I am content to confess, a happy accident.