faintest trace of cultivation was visible. It is not always easy either to distinguish between the genuine enclosures of ancient days and the trenches left after the decay of comparatively modern fir-plantations, which it is usual to surround with a low mound and ditch. Long after the fir trees have died out the green mound remains; but there are rules by which the two, with a little care, may be distinguished.
The ancient field, in the first place, is generally very much smaller; and there are usually three or four or more in close proximity, divided by the faint green ridges, sometimes roughly resembling in ground-plan the squares of a chess-board. The mound that once enclosed a fir-plantation is much higher, and would be noticed by the most casual observer. It encircles a wide area, often irregular in shape, oval or circular, and does not present the regular internal divisions of the other—which, indeed, would be unnecessary and out of place in a copse.
It has become the fashion of recent years to break up the sward of the downs, to pare off the turf and burn it, and scatter the ashes over the soil newly turned up by the plough; the idea being mainly to keep more sheep by the aid of turnips and green crops than could be grazed upon the grass. In places it answers—in many others not; after two or three crops the yield sometimes falls to next to nothing. There is a ploughed field here right upon the ridge of the down, close to the ancient earthwork, where in dry summers I have seen ripening oats barely a foot high, and barley equally short. With all the resources of modern agriculture, artificial manure, deeper ploughing, and more complete cleaning, such results do not seem altogether commensurate with the labour bestowed. Of course it is not always so, else the enterprise would be at once abandoned. But when I come to think of the ancient tillage in the terraces upon the barren slopes, I find it difficult to see how, with their rude implements, the men of those times could have procured any sustenance from their soil, unless I suppose the conditions different.
If there was forest all around, to condense the vapours rolling over and deposit a heavy dew or grateful rainfall, then they may have found the stubborn earth more fruitful. Trees and brakes, and thickets, too, would give shelter and protect the rising growth from the bitter winds; while when first tilled the soil itself would be rich from the decay of accumulated leaves, dead boughs, and vegetable matter. So that the terrace gardens may have yielded plentifully then, and were probably surrounded with stockades to protect them from the ravages of the beasts of the forest. Now the very site of the ancient town can scarcely be distinguished: the sheep graze, the lambs gambol gaily over it in the sunshine, and the shepherd dozes hard by on the slope while his dog watches the flock.
A long day of rain is often followed by a moderately fine evening—the clouds breaking up as the sun nears the horizon. It happened one summer evening, after just such a day of continuous showers, that I was in a meadow about two miles distant from the hills. The rain had ceased, and the sky was clear overhead of all but a thin film of cloud, through which the blue was visible in places. But westward there was still a bank of vapour concealing the sinking sun; and eastwards, towards the downs, it was also thick and dark. I walked slowly along with a gun, on the inner side of a great hedge which hid the hills, waiting every now and then behind a projecting bush for a rabbit to come out—a couple being wanted. In heavy rain, such as had lasted all day, they generally remain within their ‘buries’—or if one slips out, he usually keeps on the bank, sheltered by stoles and trees, and nibbling a little of the grass that grows there and is comparatively dry. But as evening approaches and the rain ceases, they naturally come forth to break a long fast, and may then be shot.
Some little time passed thus, when, in sauntering along, I came to a gap in the hedge, and glanced through it in the direction of the downs, there partly visible. The idea at once occurred to me that the part of the hills seen through the gap was remarkably high—very much higher and more mountainous than any I had ever visited; and actually, in the abstraction of the moment, half-intent on the rabbits and half perhaps thinking of other things, I resolved to explore that section more thoroughly. Yet, after walking a few yards further, somehow it seemed singular that the great elevation of this down should never previously have been so apparent. In short, growing curious in the matter, I returned to the gap and looked again.
There was no mistake: there was the down rising up against the sky—a huge dusky mountainous hill, exactly the same in outline as I remembered it, quite familiar, and yet entirely strange. There was the old barn near the foot of the slope; above it the black line of a low hedge and mound; on the summit the same old clump of trees; and lastly, a tall column of black smoke rising upwards, as if from a steam plough at work. It was all just the same, but lifted up into the air—the hill grown into a mountain. A second and longer gaze failed to discover the explanation of the apparition: the eye was completely deceived, and yet the mind was not satisfied. But upon getting up into the gap of the hedge, so as to obtain a better view from the mound, the cause of the illusion was at once visible.
Looking through the gap was like looking through a narrow window, only a short section of the hill being within sight; from the elevation of the mound the whole range of hills could be seen at the same time. Then it became immediately apparent that on either side of this great mountain the continuation of the down right and left remained still at its former level. Upon the central hill a cloud was resting, and had for the time taken its exact shape. The ridge itself was dark, and the dark grey vapour harmonised precisely with its hue; so that the real hill and the cloud merged into each other. Either the barn and clump of trees were reproduced or perhaps enlarged and distorted by the refraction: the seeming column of smoke was a fragment of a blacker colour which chanced to be in a nearly perpendicular position. Even when recognised as such, the illusion was still perfect; nor could the eye separate the hill from the unsubstantial vapour.
As I watched it, the apparent column of smoke bent, and its upper part floated away, enlarging just as smoke, its upward motion overcome by the wind, slowly yields to the current. Soon afterwards the light breeze stretched out one end of the mass of cloud, began to roll up the other, and presently lifted it, revealing the real ridge beneath, which grew momentarily more distinctly defined. Finally, the misty bank hung suspended over the down, and slowly sailed eastwards with the wind. Some time afterwards I saw a similar mirage-like enlargement of the down by cloudy vapour resting on it and assuming its contour; but the illusion was not so perfect, because seen from a more open spot, allowing an extended view of the range, and because the cloud was lighter in colour than the hill to which it clung.
These clouds were, of course, passing at a very low elevation above the earth: in rainy weather, although but a few hundred feet high, the ridges are frequently obscured with cloud. The old folk in the vale, whose whole lives have been spent watching and waiting on the weather, say that the hills ‘draw’ the thunder—that wherever a storm arises it always ‘draws’ towards them. If it comes from the west it often splits—one storm going along the ridges to the south, and the other passing over detached hills to the northward; so that the basin between is rarely visited by thunder overhead. They have, too, an old superstition—based apparently, on a text of the Bible—that the thunder always rises originally in the north, though it may reach them from a different direction. For it is their belief also that thunder ‘works round;’ so that after a heavy storm, say in the afternoon, when the air has cleared to all appearance, they will tell you that the sunshine and calm are a deception. In a few hours’ time, or in the course of the night, the storm will return, having ‘worked round:’ and indeed in that locality this is very often the case. It is to be observed that even a small copse will for a short distance in its rear quite divert the course of a breeze; so that a weathercock placed on the leeside is entirely untrustworthy: if the wind really blows from the south and over the copse, the weathercock will sometimes point in precisely the opposite direction, obeying the ‘undertow’ of the gale, as it were, drawing backwards.
In summer especially, I fancy, an effect is sometimes produced by a variation in the electrical condition of comparatively small areas, corresponding perhaps with the difference of soil—one becoming more heated than another. Showers are certainly often of a remarkably local character: a walk of half a mile along a road dark from recent rain will frequently bring you to a place where the dust is white and thick as ever, the line of demarcation sharply marked across the highway. In winter rain takes a wider sweep.
From the elevation of the earthwork on