630 
Very little now remains of the old Fen by which an idea can be 
formed of its former appearance, and it is only when in a state of 
flood that one of its aspects can be fully realized, hlothing can he 
more dreary and depressing than crossing the dead level of black 
sodden soil in winter or early spring; but in summer or early autumn, 
when the fields are one blaze of brilliant yellow from the blossom- 
ing Mustard and Cole-seed, and the deep rich green of the Mangolds 
and Turnips, or the sombre patches of Beans are lighted up by fields 
of ripening corn, glowing like richest gold, the whole canopied by 
a lofty sky of almost Italian depth of colour, then it must be 
admitted the prospect is one of great beauty, and the wealth of 
colour extending as far as the eye can penetrate, before blending 
with the blue distance, closes in a landscape such as only the 
“golden plain” can present. But if (in the words of Kingsley),* 
“ they have a beauty of their own, these great Fens even now 
Avhen they are dyked and drained, tilled and fenced, a beauty as of 
the sea, of boundless expanse and freedom. Much more had they 
that beauty eight hundred years ago, when they were still, for the 
most part, as God had made them, or rather was making them even 
then.” Very beautiful is the whole passage, but too long to quote. 
Far away in the old Fen stretched the boundless levels of stately 
Heeds bending their purpled crowns to the passing breeze, ever and 
anon revealing brief glances of the silver waters beyond — or, the 
rolling sea of sedge, flecked by the shadows of the passing clouds, 
spread out like the sands of the shore. Here the greetr turf was 
decked with the brightness of a thousand flowers, and the air, — 
heavy with the fragrance of the stately Meadow-sweet, — was gay 
with the beauteous forms of the lovely Butterflies, which flitted 
from flower to flower ; the voices of the numerous water-fowl, 
swimming in and out amongst the Reeds, adding the charm of life to 
a scene almost perfect in its beauty; whilst over all floated a 
drowsy hum, far off, and indistinct : 
“ And the wavy swell of the soughing Reeds, 
And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank. 
And the silvery Marsh-flowers that throng 
The desolate creeks and pools among, 
AVere flooded over with eddying song.” 
* ‘ Ilereward the Wake,’ vol. i. pp. 16 - 18 . 
