MY JOURNEY.
Human nature is destined to disappointment, and your contributor is no exception to the rule. He, like others of his species, has occasionally to bear with little defeats of expectation; so it was on the present occasion. A friend kindly promised me a seat in his conveyance in the early part of the week, which I accepted. Circumstances occurred which prevented my friend carrying out his good intentions, and as a matter of course I had to adopt one of two methods of proceeding—either stay at home or trip it on ‟shanks’ pony.” Curiosity had become so much excited, and the prospect of a lovely walk amid some of Nature's charming beauties acting as a further stimulant, I determined to adopt the latter course, and treat myself to a pedestrian excursion, which I tried to flatter myself would be rather beneficial than otherwise to my earthly tabernacle; and what was more, curiosity would be satisfied by having an opportunity of judging for myself of one concerning whom I have heard so many conflicting opinions; and indeed I must, in all truth and honesty, confess that the gratification of this propensity, which we all possess in a greater or less degree, impelled me rather than my ‟gospel-greedyness.”
Half-past four, then, found me on my way to Finchdean, from my own cottage, which I shall call ‟Innominata.” Soon I pass through a suburb of Petersfield, not over rich in anything to attract the notice of the passerby. One object of interest, however, I cannot avoid noticing—the gas house; an object which certainly seems to have more of the useful than the ornamental about it. It would seem, if I can judge anything from appearances, that the Company did not think it necessary to bestow over much pains on architectural ornament, The village of Weston next is passed, lying to the right, a village which, as far as we can learn, presents a pretty correct type of a neat and happy rural retreat, mixed up with no small share of Arcadian happiness and simplicity. Its name (West town) would almost indicate that at one time it was something more than a village. Between Weston and the Portsmouth road stands a snug little farmstead, known as Mapledurham, which is all that now remains of the ancient Mapledresham, a place so rich in historic lore, and one which holds no mean position in the ancient history of our county, and which is even connected with the annals of our country. I must say no more at present, however, about this secluded spot, as I hope at some future day to give you a short account of Petersfield and its vicinity, should it be acceptable to your readers. Here the London and Portsmouth Direct Railway crosses the road, and as the line goes close by Finchdean, and my knowledge of the ‟geography” of the place is anything but satisfactory, I purpose travelling the remainder of the journey by rail. This line, I regret to say, is still in an unfinished state, although it was begun nearly five years ago. I find neither my powers of locomotion nor yet my rate of speed increased by the rail, and this notwithstanding my steam is raised to a pretty high temperature. But I suppose railway companies never meant their lines to be of use to humble pedestrians. I quickly find myself standing gazing down upon Buriton. Hurried as I am, I must stop and feast my eyes for a moment on this lovely village, so rich in Nature's beauties, and so decked with her finest ornaments. There the snug village lies embosomed in a delightful nook at the foot of the hill. You see, almost beneath your feet, the picturesque and lovely village church, with its ivy-covered tower just peeping above the trees, and pointing heavenward to remind the Christian of his future destiny, and warn him of the necessity of his thoughts being directed thitherward. Close at hand, and separated from the church by a piece of water, through which flows a rivulet, which takes its rise in the adjoining hills, and its tiny feeders flow down thence through woody dells in little meandering streams, stands the village parsonage—a plain, substantial building, with little pretensions to show or outward ornament, but giving every symptom of comfort and reality—a happy and correct type of its excellent owner, the deservedly esteemed rector of the parish. Behind the sacred edifice—the church—stands the old Manor House, immortalised in the annals of history as being the abode of the great Gibbon during a large portion of his life. Here it was, in this little retired village, that the great historian prepared much of that great and able work, ‟The Rise and Fall.” The picture is filled up in the background by the beautiful scenery in the neighbourhood of Petersfield, and not the least attractive part is the little lake (through courtesy I call it such, but it is ordinarily designated ‟the pond,” I know not why) presenting such a calm and tranquil bosom amid the gay and variegated surroundings. But there is not much time to spare; and Mr. Spurgeon is sure not to wait for me if I am behind. I snatch myself away from contemplating scenes so beautiful, and dart off through the hill; yes, reader right through it. Do not be alarmed. Don’t fancy me a ghost or one of Alladin’s genii. No such thing. I am just a common being like yourself, and, I suppose, l would not have got through the hill had it not been for the tunnel which has been constructed through it. In passing through the tunnel, which occupied but four minutes, I could not prevent my mind from reverting to the scene described, although so intent upon Finchdean. How wonderful that the eye, such a small and tiny organ, can take in such a correct picture of this extensive and varied landscape without the slightest confusion! How wonderful must be the process by which it conveys its picture to the mind! How varied the thoughts and emotions there excited by this process! What a triumph of art in making iron roads through the hills, and driving human beings with lightning speed as it were through the bowels of the earth! And several other such like thoughts suddenly flitted across my mind. And do you know, kind reader, I could hardly reconcile myself to the lawfulness of Mr. Railway’s claims in presuming to introduce himself—his unceremonious self—into such lovely retreats, into some of nature’s must retired and charming spots, places sacred to seclusion and repose and thus deprive them of that charm of solitary seclusion which gives them a sacred character, by disfiguring their faces, and laying open their privacy to the public and vulgar gaze. But I suppose it must be so. It is a utilitarian age. The useful comes first and then the beautiful. But Mr. Spurgeon begins to obtrude himself again. I begin to wonder how much farther I have to travel before I reach my destination. I find myself moving at a pretty rapid pace, and as a natural consequence feel my temperature rising above what is agreeable. My coat, which at best is not an over tight fit, begins to feel extremely large and roomy; much of the solid matter of my earthly tabernacle is being converted into the fluid state. I wend my way along the serpentine course of the railway towards Finchdean through a most lovely valley richly decked on either side with luxuriant foliage, with here and there the green turf appearing, and every now and then catching a glimpse of the naked crown of the range of hills to my right, which contrasted favorably with the copse and woody slopes beneath. It will not do; however, off comes my coat, in order that I may at least get a little cooler. I now find considerable relief, but Phœbus seems bent on doing more than adding beauty to the surrounding scene by the reflection of so many and beauteous hues from the lovely landscape; his rays come down so perpendicularly, and are reflected with such effect from the valley's side, that I find my excess of calorie anything but pleasant. I see a ‟navvy” before me on the line; it is within ten minutes of six, and no appearance of Finchdean! I ask him its whereabouts ‟How far is it to Finchdean?” ‟About two miles or a little better !” On I go at my usual speed, as I find it will not be advisable to move at an increased pace, consoling myself with the idea that I would, if even late, hear as much as I could carry away. I enter the lawn where Mr. S. is to preach, just ten minutes behind time. When nearing the place, as a matter of course, I was busily engaged in conjecturing what the topic would be. What a favorable place, thought I, for a preacher to address a multitude. Surely he will carry his audience from the enchanting scenery of nature, which seems lavished in profusion all around, to the great Architect—the Author of all that is beautiful, &c. The numbers present were rather below what I expected to have seen. They all seemed to give great attention to the preacher, if I might judge from their earnest gaze. I saw several old women put their spectacles on, in order that they might get a more correct impression of the preacher's appearance, or, perhaps, it was like the old lady who put on her glasses to see if she could hear better. Mr. S. is rather below the middle size, somewhat corpulent. His countenance seems to indicate a considerable share of wit and humour; the forehead low, and the upper front teeth scarcely covered by his lips, which leads you to imagine that he is smiling. His voice very powerful, and his address easy and fluent, and he seems to hate a good isles of addressing an audience in the open air; bet if I might venture to judge from his sermon, I could not say he is eloquent. The sermon I shall reserve for our next.
SAMMY.
Petersfield.