OVER FEN AND WOLD

                            [Illustration]

          [Illustration: A SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY MANOR-HOUSE.]




                           Over Fen and Wold


                                  BY

                           JAMES JOHN HISSEY

        AUTHOR OF ‘A DRIVE THROUGH ENGLAND,’ ‘ON THE BOX SEAT,’
   ‘THROUGH TEN ENGLISH COUNTIES,’ ‘ON SOUTHERN ENGLISH ROADS,’ ETC.

    Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
    Healthy, free, the world before me,
    The long brown road before me leading wherever I choose.
                                                WHITMAN.

       WITH FOURTEEN FULL PAGE (AND SOME SMALLER) ILLUSTRATIONS
                             BY THE AUTHOR

                        AND A MAP OF THE ROUTE


                                London
                      MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
                    NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
                                 1898

                         _All rights reserved_




                               DEDICATED

                    TO THE MOST CHERISHED MEMORY OF

                          MY ONE-YEAR-OLD SON

                        WILLIAM AVERELL HISSEY

                 Darling, if Jesus rose,
           Then thou in God’s sweet strength hast risen as well;
           When o’er thy brow the solemn darkness fell,
                 It was but one moment of repose.

                 Thy love is mine--my deathless love to thee!
           May God’s love guard us till all death is o’er,--
           Till thine eyes meet my sorrowing eyes once more,--
           Then guard us still, through all eternity!




[Illustration: A HOME OF TO-DAY.]




PREFACE


The following pages contain the chronicle of a leisurely and most
enjoyable driving tour through a portion of Eastern England little
esteemed and almost wholly, if not quite, neglected by the average
tourist, for Lincolnshire is generally deemed to be a flat land, mostly
consisting of Fens, and with but small, or no scenic attractions. We,
however, found Lincolnshire to be a country of hills as well as of Fens,
and we were charmed with the scenery thereof, which is none the less
beautiful because neither famed nor fashionable. Some day it may become
both. Lincolnshire scenery awaits discovery! Hitherto the
pleasure-traveller has not found it out, but that is his loss!

We set forth on our tour, like the renowned Dr. Syntax, “in search of
the picturesque,” combined with holiday relaxation, and in neither
respect did we suffer disappointment. Our tour was an unqualified
success. A more delightfully independent, a more restful, or a more
remunerative way of seeing the country than by driving through it,
without haste or any precisely arranged plan, it is difficult to
conceive, ensuring, as such an expedition does, perfect freedom, and a
happy escape from the many minor worries of ordinary travel--the only
thing absolutely needful for the driving tourist to do being to find an
inn for the night.

Writing of the joys of road-travel in the pre-railway days George Eliot
says, “You have not the best of it in all things, O youngsters! The
elderly man has his enviable memories, and not the least of them is the
memory of a long journey on the outside of a stage-coach.” The railway
is most excellent for speed, “but the slow old-fashioned way of getting
from one end of the country to the other is the better thing to have in
the memory. The happy outside coach-passenger, seated on the box from
the dawn to the gloaming, gathered enough stories of English life,
enough aspects of earth and sky, to make episodes for a modern Odyssey.”
And so did we seated in our own dog-cart, more to be envied even than
the summer-time coach-passenger, for we had full command over our
conveyance, so that we could stop on the way, loiter, or make haste, as
the mood inclined.

Sir Edwin Arnold says, “This world we live in is becoming sadly
monotonous, as it shrinks year by year to smaller and smaller apparent
dimensions under the rapid movement provided by limited passenger trains
and swift ocean steamships.” Well, by driving one enlarges the apparent
size of the world, for, as John Burrough puts it, “When you get into a
railway carriage you want a continent, but the man in his carriage
requires only a county.” Very true, moreover the man who steams round
the world may see less than the man who merely drives round about an
English county: the former is simply conveyed, the latter travels--a
distinction with a vast difference!

In conclusion, I have only to express the hope that the illustrations
herewith, engraved on wood from my sketches by Mr. George Pearson (to
whom I tender my thanks for the pains he has taken in their
reproduction), may lend an added interest to this unvarnished record of
a most delightful and health-giving holiday.

                                                          J. J. HISSEY.

1898.




[Illustration: SOMERSBY CHURCH AND CROSS.]




CONTENTS


CHAPTER I

                                                                    PAGE

The planning of our tour--Ready for the road--The start--One of
Dick Turpin’s haunts--Barnet--A curious inn sign--In the coaching
days--Travellers, new and old--A forgotten Spa--An ancient map         1


CHAPTER II

Memorial of a great battle--An ancient fire-cresset--Free
feasting!--Country quiet--Travellers’ Tales--Hatfield--An
Elizabethan architect--An author’s tomb--Day-dreaming--Mysterious
roadside monuments--Great North Road _versus_ Great Northern
Railway--Stevenage--Chats by the way--Field life--Nature as a
painter--Changed times                                                21

CHAPTER III

A gipsy encampment--A puzzling matter--Farming and farmers, past
and present--An ancient market-town--A picturesque bit of old-world
architecture--Gleaners--Time’s changes--A house in two counties--A
wayside inn--The commercial value of the picturesque                  41


CHAPTER IV

Biggleswade--“Instituted” or “intruded”!--A poetical will--The river
Ivel--A day to be remembered--The art of seeing--Misquotations--The
striving after beauty--Stories in stone--An ancient muniment chest--An
angler’s haunt--The town bridge--The pronunciation of names--St.
Neots                                                                 58


CHAPTER V

The charm of small towns--The Ouse--A pleasant land--Buckden
Palace--A joke in stone--The birthplace of Samuel Pepys--Buried
treasure--Huntingdon--An old-time interior--A famous coaching inn--St.
Ives--A church steeple blown down!--A quaint and ancient bridge--A
riverside ramble--Cowper’s country--Two narrow escapes                73


CHAPTER VI

Cromwell’s birthplace--Records of the past--Early photographs--A
breezy day--Home-brewed ale--Americans on English scenery--Alconbury
Hill--The plains of Cambridgeshire--The silence of Nature--Stilton--A
decayed coaching town--A medieval hostelry--A big sign-board--Old-world
traditions--Miles from anywhere                                       97

CHAPTER VII

Norman Cross--A Norman-French inscription--A re-headed statue--The
friendliness of the road--The art of being delightful--The turnpike
roads in their glory--Bits for the curious--A story of the
stocks--“Wansford in England”--Romance and reality--The glamour
of art--“The finest street between London and Edinburgh”--Ancient
“Callises”--A historic inn--Windows that have tales to tell          118


CHAPTER VIII

A picturesque ruin--Round about Stamford--Browne’s “Callis”--A chat
with an antiquary--A quaint interior--“Bull-running”--A relic of a
destroyed college--An old Carmelite gateway--A freak of Nature--Where
Charles I. last slept as a free man--A storied ceiling--A gleaner’s
bell--St. Leonard’s Priory--Tennyson’s county--In time of vexation--A
flood--Hiding-holes--Lost!--Memorials of the past                    139


CHAPTER IX

A land of dykes--Fenland rivers--Crowland Abbey--A unique triangular
bridge--Antiquaries differ--A mysterious statue--A medieval rhyme--A
wayside inscription--The scenery of the Fens--Light-hearted
travellers--Cowbit--A desolate spot--An adventure on the road--A
Dutch-like town                                                      161


CHAPTER X

Spalding--“Ye Olde White Horse Inne”--An ancient hall and quaint
garden--Epitaph-hunting--A signboard joke--Across the Fens--A strange
world--Storm and sunshine--An awkward predicament--Bourn--Birthplace
of Hereward the Wake--A medieval railway station!--Tombstone
verses                                                               186

CHAPTER XI

A pleasant road--Memories--Shortening of names--Health-drinking--A
Miller and his mill--A rail-less town--Changed times and changed
ways--An Elizabethan church clock--A curious coincidence--Old
superstitions--Satire in carving--“The Monks of Old”                 204


CHAPTER XII

A civil tramp--Country hospitality--Sleaford--A Lincolnshire
saying--A sixteenth-century vicarage--Struck by lightning--“The
Queen of Villages”--A sculptured anachronism--Swineshead--A strange
legend--Local proverbs--Chat with a “commercial”--A mission of
destruction--The curfew--Lost our way--Out of the beaten track--A
grotesque figure and mysterious legend--Puzzling inscriptions--The end
of a long day                                                        226


CHAPTER XIII

The Fenland capital--Mother and daughter towns--“Boston stump”--One
church built over another--The company at our inn--A desultory
ramble--An ancient prison--The Pilgrim Fathers--The banks of the
Witham--Hussey Tower--An English Arcadia--Kyme Castle--Benington--A
country of many churches--Wrangle--In search of a ghost--A remote
village--Gargoyles--The grotesque in art                             248


CHAPTER XIV

Wind-blown trees--Marshlands--September weather--Wainfleet--An
ancient school--The scent of the sea--The rehabilitation of the
old-fashioned ghost--A Lincolnshire mystery--A vain search--Too much
alike--Delightfully indefinite--Halton Holgate--In quest of a haunted
house                                                                268

CHAPTER XV

In a haunted house--A strange story--A ghost described!--An offer
declined--Market-day in a market-town--A picturesque crowd--Tombs of
ancient warriors--An old tradition--Popular errors--A chat by the
way--The modern Puritan--A forgotten battle-ground--At the sign of the
“Bull”                                                               288


CHAPTER XVI

Six hilly miles--A vision for a pilgrim--The scenery of the
Wolds--Poets’ dreams _versus_ realities--Tennyson’s brook--Somersby--An
out-of-the-world spot--Tennyson-land--A historic home--A unique relic
of the past--An ancient moated grange--Traditions                    309


CHAPTER XVII

A decayed fane--Birds in church--An old manorial hall--Curious
creations of the carver’s brain--The grotesque _in excelsis_--The old
formal garden--Sketching from memory--The beauty of the Wolds--Lovely
Lincolnshire!--Advice heeded!--A great character--A headless
horseman--Extremes meet--“All’s well that ends well”                 329


CHAPTER XVIII

A friend in a strange land--Horse sold in a church--A sport of the
past--Racing the moon!--Facts for the curious--The Champions of
England--Scrivelsby Court--Brush magic--Coronation cups--A unique
privilege--A blundering inscription--A headless body--Nine miles
of beauty--Wragby--At Lincoln--Guides and guide-books--An awkward
predicament                                                          352

CHAPTER XIX

“A precious piece of architecture”--Guest at an inn--A pleasant
city--Unexpected kindness--A medieval lavatory--An honest lawyer!--The
cost of obliging a stranger--Branston--A lost cyclist--In search of
a husband!--Dunston Pillar--An architectural puzzle--A Lincolnshire
spa--Exploring--An ancient chrismatory                               372


CHAPTER XX

A long discourse--The origin of a coat-of-arms--An English
serf--A witch-stone--Lincolnshire folk-lore--A collar for
lunatics--St. Mary’s thistle--A notable robbery--An architectural
gem--Coningsby--Tattershall church and castle--Lowland and
upland--“Beckingham-behind-the-Times”--Old Lincolnshire folk         395


CHAPTER XXI

A cross-country road--A famous hill--Another medieval inn--“The
Drunken Sermon”--Bottesford--Staunton Hall--Old family deeds--A
chained library--Woolsthorpe manor-house--A great inventor!--Melton
Mowbray--Oakham--A quaint old manorial custom--Rockingham
Castle--Kirby                                                        415


CHAPTER XXII

A well-preserved relic--An old English home--Authorities differ--Rooms
on the top of a Church tower--A medieval-looking town--A Saxon
tower--Bedford--Bunyan’s birthplace--Luton--The end of the
journey                                                              436

APPENDIX                                                             443

INDEX                                                                445




ILLUSTRATIONS


A SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY MANOR-HOUSE                        _Frontispiece_

A HOME OF TO-DAY                                       _Page_        vii

SOMERSBY CHURCH AND CROSS                                           "  xi

OLD BRASS CROMWELL CLOCK                               _To face page_  1

ST. IVES BRIDGE                                        _Page_          1

A WAYSIDE INN                                          _To face page_ 66

AN OLD COACHING INN: COURTYARD OF THE
GEORGE, HUNTINGDON                                               " "  84

A MEDIEVAL HOSTELRY: THE BELL, STILTON                           " " 110

A QUIET COUNTRY ROAD                                             " " 154

CROWLAND ABBEY                                                   " " 174

A FENLAND HOME                                                   " " 194

A BIT OF BOSTON                                                  " " 255

AN OLD-TIME FARMSTEAD                                            " " 284

SOMERSBY RECTORY                                                 " " 318

SCRIVELSBY COURT                                                 " " 358

STIXWOLD FERRY                                                   " " 389

TATTERSHALL TOWER                                                " " 406

WOOLSTHORPE MANOR-HOUSE                                          " " 428

MAP OF ROUTE                                                _End of book_

[Illustration: OLD BRASS CROMWELL CLOCK.

_See page 8._
]




[Illustration: ST. IVES BRIDGE.

_See page 91._
]




OVER FEN AND WOLD




CHAPTER I

     The planning of our tour--Ready for the road--The start--One of
     Dick Turpin’s haunts--Barnet--A curious inn sign--In the coaching
     days--Travellers, new and old--A forgotten Spa--An ancient map.


Our tour was planned one chilly winter’s evening: just a chance letter
originated the idea of exploring a portion of Lincolnshire during the
coming summer. Our project in embryo was to drive from London to that
more or less untravelled land of fen and wold by the old North Road, and
to return to our starting-point by another route, to be decided upon
when we had finished our Lincolnshire wanderings. It was in this wise.
The day had been wild and blustery, as drear a day indeed as an English
December well could make. A bullying “Nor’-Easter” had been blowing
savagely ever since the morning, by the evening it had increased to a
veritable storm, the hail and sleet were hurled against the windows of
our room, and the wind, as it came in fierce gusts, shook the casements
as though it would blow them in if it could. My wife and self were
chatting about former wanderings on wheels, trying fairly successfully
to forget all about the inclement weather without, each comfortably
ensconced in a real easychair within the ample ingle-nook of that cosy
chamber known to the household as “the snuggery”--a happy combination of
studio and library--the thick curtains were closely drawn across the
mullioned windows to exclude any possible draughts, the great wood fire
on the hearth (not one of your black coal fires in an iron grate
arrangement) blazed forth right merrily, the oak logs crackled in a
companionable way, throwing at the same time a ruddy glow into the room,
and the bright flames roared up the wide chimney ever and again with an
additional potency in response to extra vehement blasts without.

“What a capital time,” I exclaimed, “to look over some of the sketches
we made during our last summer holiday; they will help us to recall the
long sunny days, those jolly days we spent in the country, and bring
back to mind many a pleasant spot and picturesque old home!” No sooner
was the idea expressed than I sought out sundry well-filled sketch-books
from the old oak corner cupboard devoted to our artistic belongings.
True magicians were those sketch-books, with a power superior even to
that

[Sidenote: _REMINISCENCES_]

of Prince Houssain’s carpet of _Arabian Nights_ renown, for by their aid
not only were we quickly transported to the distant shires, but we also
turned back the hand of Time to the genial summer days, and, in spirit,
were soon far away repeating our past rambles, afoot and awheel, along
the bracken-clad hillsides, over the smooth-turfed Downs, and across the
rugged, boulder-strewn moors, here purple with heather and there aglow
with golden gorse; anon we were strolling alongside the grassy banks of
a certain quiet gliding river beloved of anglers, and spanned, just at a
point where an artist would have placed it, by a hoary bridge built by
craftsmen dead and gone to dust long centuries ago. Then, bringing
forcibly to mind the old beloved coaching days, came a weather-stained
hostelry with its great sign-board still swinging as of yore on the top
of a high post, and bearing the representation--rude but effective--of a
ferocious-looking red lion that one well-remembered summer evening bade
us two tired and dust-stained travellers a hearty heraldic welcome. Next
we found ourselves wandering down a narrow valley made musical by a
little stream tumbling and gambolling over its rocky bed (for the
sketches revealed to the mind infinitely more than what the eye merely
saw, recalling Nature’s sweet melodies, her songs without words, as well
as her visible beauties; besides raising within one countless
half-forgotten memories)--a stream that turned the great green droning
wheel of an ancient water-mill, down to which on either hand gently
sloped the wooded hills, and amidst the foliage, half drowned in
greenery, we could discern at irregular intervals the red-tiled
rooftrees of lowly cottage homes peeping picturesquely forth. Then we
were transported to an old, time-grayed manor-house of many gables and
great stacks of clustering chimneys, its ivy-grown walls and
lichen-laden roof being backed by rook-haunted ancestral elms; the
ancient home, with its quaint, old-fashioned garden and reed-grown moat
encircling it, seemed, when we first came unexpectedly thereon, more
like the fond creation of a painter or a poet than a happy reality.

“Don’t you remember,” said my wife, as we were looking at this last
drawing, “what a delightful day we spent there, and how the owner, when
he discovered us sketching, at once made friends with us and showed us
all over the dear old place, and how he delighted in the old armour in
the hall, and how he told us that his ancestors fought both at Crecy and
Agincourt--how nice it must be to have valiant ancestors like that!--and
don’t you remember that low-ceilinged, oak-panelled bed-chamber with the
leaden-lattice window, _the haunted room_, and how it looked its part;
and afterwards how the landlady of the village inn where we baited our
horses would have it that the ghost of a former squire who was murdered
by some one--or the ghost of somebody who was murdered by that squire,
she was not quite sure which--stalks about that very chamber every
night. And then there were the curiously-clipped yews on the terrace,
and the old carved sun-dial at the end of the long walk, and----” But
the last sentence was destined never to be finished, for at that moment
a knock came at the door, followed by a servant bringing in a letter all
moist and dripping, a trifling incident, that, however, sufficed to
transport us back again from our dreamy wanderings amongst sunny summer
scenes to that drear December night--our fireside travels came to an
abrupt end!

[Sidenote: “_TRY LINCOLNSHIRE_”]

“What a night for any one to be out,” I muttered, as I took the
proffered letter, glancing first at the handwriting, which was
unfamiliar, then at the postmark, which bore the name of a remote
Lincolnshire town, yet we knew no one in that whole wide county. Who
could the sender be? we queried. He proved to be an unknown friend, who
in a good-natured mood had written to suggest, in case we should be at a
loss for a fresh country to explore during the coming summer, that we
should try Lincolnshire; he further went on to remark, lest we should
labour under the popular and mistaken impression (which we did) that it
was a land more or less given over to “flats, fens and fogs,” that he
had visitors from London staying with him with their bicycles, who
complained loudly of the hills in his neighbourhood; furthermore, “just
to whet our appetites,” as he put it, there followed a tempting list,
“by way of sample,” of some of the good things scenic, antiquarian, and
archæological, that awaited us, should we only come. Amongst the
number--to enumerate only a few in chance order, and leaving out Lincoln
and its cathedral--there were Crowland’s ruined abbey, set away in the
heart of the Fens; numerous old churches, that by virtue of their
remoteness had the rare good fortune to have escaped the restorer’s
hands, and not a few of these, we were given to understand, contained
curious brasses and interesting tombs of knightly warriors and
unremembered worthies; Tattershall Castle, a glorious old pile, one of
the finest structures of the kind in the kingdom; the historic town of
Boston, with its famous fane and “stump” and Dutch-like waterways;
Stamford, erst the rival of Oxford and Cambridge, with its Jacobean
buildings, crumbling colleges, and quaint “Callises” or hospitals;
Grantham, with its wonderful church spire and genuine medieval hostelry,
dating back to the fifteenth century, that still offers entertainment to
the latter-day pilgrim, and, moreover, makes him “comfortable
exceedingly”; besides many an old coaching inn wherein to take our ease;
not to mention the picturesque villages and sleepy market-towns, all
innocent of the hand of the modern builder, nor the rambling
manor-houses with their unwritten histories, the many moated granges
with their unrecorded traditions, and perhaps not least, two really
haunted houses, possessing well-established ghosts.

Then there was Tennyson’s birthplace at pretty Somersby, and the haunts
of his early life round about, the wild wolds he loved so and sang
of--the Highlands of Lincolnshire!--a dreamy land full of the
unconscious poetry of civilisation, primitive and picturesque, yet not
wholly unprogressive; a land where the fussy railway does not intrude,
and where the rush and stress of this bustling century has made no
visible impression; a land also where odd characters abound, and where
the wise sayings of their forefathers, old folk-lore, legends, and
strange superstitions linger yet; and last on the long list, and perhaps
not least in interest, there was the wide Fenland, full of its own
weird, but little understood beauties. Verily here was a tempting
programme!

[Sidenote: _A TEMPTING PROGRAMME!_]

Pondering over all these good things, we found ourselves wondering how
it was that we had never thought of Lincolnshire as fresh ground to
explore before. Did we not then call to mind what a most enjoyable tour
we had made through the little-esteemed Eastern Counties? though before
starting on that expedition we had been warned by friends--who had never
been there, by the way--that we should repent our resolve, as that
portion of England was flat, tame, and intensely uninteresting, having
nothing to show worth seeing, fit for farming and little else. Yet we
remembered that we discovered the Langton Hills on our very first day
out, and still retained a vivid impression of the glorious views
therefrom, and all the rest of the journey was replete with pleasant
surprises and scenic revelations. Truly we found the Land of the Broads
to be flat, but so full of character and special beauty as to attract
artists to paint it. “Therefore,” we exclaimed, “why should not
Lincolnshire prove equally interesting and beautiful?” Perhaps even,
like the once tourist-neglected Broads, the charms and picturesqueness
of Lincolnshire may some day be discovered, be guidebook-lauded as a
delightful holiday ground. Who knows? Besides, there was the drive
thither and back along the old coachroads to be remembered; that of
itself was sure to be rewarding.

The letter set us a-thinking, and the special shelf in our little
library where sundry road-books and county maps are kept was searched
for a chart of Lincolnshire. We were soon deeply engrossed with books
and maps, and with their aid planned a very promising tour. By the time
the old brass Cromwell clock on the bracket in a corner of the
ingle-nook struck twelve we had finally decided, for good or ill, to try
Lincolnshire; already we found ourselves longing for the summer time to
come that we might be off!

But for all our longings and schemings it was the first of September
before we actually set out on our journey; however, if this were
unkindly delayed by the Fates, to make amends for such delay it must be
confessed that they granted us perfect travellers’ weather, for during
almost the whole time we were away from home there was not a day either
too hot or too cold for open-air enjoyment, we had very little rain, and
plenty of sunshine.

According to my experience, the month of September and the first week in
October are generally the finest times in the year in England. During
our journey we picked up, to us, many fresh bits of weather-lore and
old-folk sayings; these are always welcome, and one of them runs thus:
“It’s a foul year when there are not twenty fine days in September.” In
that month truly the days are growing gradually shorter, but,

[Sidenote: _IN TRAVELLING ORDER_]

on the other hand, the dust--that one fly in the ointment of the driving
tourist--is not so troublesome, indeed on this occasion it did not
trouble us at all, nor is the heat so oppressive, nor the light so
glaring as in July or August; and if the evenings draw in then, well, it
only means an early start to have still a good long day before one, and
the dusk coming on as you reach your night’s destination is a plausible
excuse for indulging in a homelike fire in your apartment; and what a
look of friendly familiarity a fire imparts to even a strange room, to
say nothing of the mellow glow of candles on the table where your meal
is spread! There is something indescribably cheery and suggestive of
comfort, cosiness, and taking your ease about a fire-warmed and
candle-lighted room! Truly there are certain compensating advantages in
the early evenings! Did not Charles Lamb, writing to a brother poet,
Bernard Barton, exclaim of July, “Deadly long are the days, these summer
all-day days, with but a half-hour’s candle-light and no fire-light at
all”?

Now, kind reader, please picture in your mind’s eye our comfortable and
roomy dog-cart, carefully packed with all our necessary baggage, rugs,
and waterproofs, the latter in case of cold or wet; our sketching and
photographic paraphernalia; and even every luxury that long experience,
gleaned from many former expeditions of a like nature, could suggest;
not forgetting a plentiful supply of good tobacco of our favourite
mixture, nor yet books to beguile a possible dull hour, which, however,
never occurred. Amongst the books was a copy of Kingsley’s _Hereward
the Wake_, as this treats of the Fenland heroes, as well as describes
much of the lowland scenery of Lincolnshire. When I add that we included
in our “kit” a supply of candles in case the light at some of the
country inns should be too poor to read or write by comfortably, I think
it may be taken for granted that nothing was forgotten that would in any
way add to our ease or pleasure. It is astonishing how materially the
thought of such apparent trifles adds to the enjoyment of an outing like
ours. Even a good field-glass enhances the interest of a wide prospect,
such as is continually met with during a lengthened driving tour, by
enabling one the better to make out any special feature in the distant
panorama.

Being thus prepared for the road, one cloudy September morning found us
driving slowly out of the vast conglomeration of smoke-stained bricks
and mortar that go to make the city--or county is it?--of London.
Passing the Marble Arch, we reached the Edgware Road, up which we turned
our horses’ heads, bound first for Barnet, taking Finchley on the way,
and striking the Great North Road just beyond the latter place, which
famous old coaching and posting highway we proposed to follow right on
to “Stamford town” in Lincolnshire.

The morning was warm, cloudy, and rainless, though there had been a
prolonged downpour during the night, but the barometer was happily on
the rise, the “Forecast” in the paper prophesied only occasional
showers, and we gladly noted that

[Sidenote: _THE FREEDOM OF THE ROAD_]

there were frequent patches of blue showing through the cloud-rifts
above; all of which points taken together gave promise of improved
meteorological conditions, so that, in spite of the dulness of the
moment, we drove along in the most optimist of moods, firm in the belief
that the day would turn out fine; but fine or wet, we set forth on
pleasure bent with a fixed determination, come what might in the shape
of weather, to enjoy ourselves, and it would have taken a good deal more
than a few showers just then to damp our jubilant holiday spirits.

No children fresh from school could have felt “jollier” than we did on
that memorable morning, at perfect liberty to wander whither we would,
masters of our conveyance, with no anxiety as to luggage, bound by no
tiresome time-tables, but departing and arriving at pleasure, stopping
here and there when anything of interest attracted our attention,
loitering by the way or hastening along at our own sweet pleasure: the
freedom of the road was ours, more desirable to us than the freedom of
any city, however great that city might be; and the former is to be had
by all, and the latter is only for the favoured few!

Now, kind reader, if you will permit me to call you so once more, as at
last we really have started on our tour, I take the opportunity to crave
your welcome company, and cordially invite you in spirit to mount on to
the box-seat and join us in our pleasant pilgrimage along the highways
and byways of this little-travelled corner of Old England, and allow me
to do the honours of the country as we pass through it, and for the
nonce to act the part of “guide, philosopher, and friend.”

For the first few miles it was a getting-out-of-town all the way; houses
and villas lined the road more or less, with tantalising peeps
between--peeps ever growing wider and more frequent--of the greenful
country stretching away to the blue horizon beyond, a beyond that looked
very alluring to our town-tired eyes. We drove on apace, for we found
nothing to specially interest or detain us till we reached Barnet; we
felt only anxious to escape as speedily as possible from the
ever-spreading domain of bricks and mortar, and to reach the real open
country, where pleasant footpaths take the place of the hard pavements,
and fragrant hedgerows, verdurous meadows, and tilled fields with their
green and golden crops that of houses raised by the speculative
builder--to sell. How much better was the old system of men building
their own homes to live in! The speculative builder is the unhappy
product of a progressive (?) century; he perhaps is responsible for the
uglification of London more than aught else, and, alas! is still adding
to it.

Passing through the once rural hamlet of Whetstone, it was difficult to
realise that this now frequented spot was erst the favourite
hunting-ground of that famous (or infamous, if you will)
arch-highwayman, Dick Turpin. Great indeed was the terror inspired by
his name, for it is recorded that many a Scotch nobleman, squire, and
merchant of the period, having occasion to go from Edinburgh to London
or _vice versa_,

[Sidenote: _A POPULAR SIGN_]

actually preferred to risk the dangers and suffer the certain
discomforts of the then tedious sea voyage between those places, rather
than face the possibility of meeting with Master Turpin--lord of the
road from London to York! A driving tour would have afforded plenty of
excitement in those days, though I shall ever maintain that
adventures--and this from personal experiences of such with Indians,
bears, and rattlesnakes, whilst exploring the wild forests and mountains
of far-off California--are vastly better to read about than to
experience. Adventures are excellent things to relate to your friends in
after-dinner talk, if you can only get them to take you seriously!

Arriving at Barnet, we pulled up at the “Red Lion,” and rested there to
bait our horses. The sign of the inn--perhaps the most popular of all
English signs--was not painted on a board and upheld by a post, as so
frequently obtains in old-fashioned hostelries such as this; but the
lion was carved in wood, and skilfully carved too, whilst to add to his
dignity we found him rejoicing in a fresh coat of vermilion, and still
further to attract the wayfarer’s attention he was supported upon a
wrought-iron bracket that projected right over the pavement. This sign,
standing thus boldly aloft on its great bracket, was a point of interest
in the everyday street for the eye to dwell upon--an interest emphasised
by past-time associations, for thus, before the coming of the iron
horse, had it greeted our inn-loving forefathers when journeying this
way, and in a pleasantly defiant manner bade them stop and take their
ease; not that they needed much pressing to do so, for did not the
worthy Dr. Johnson, when posting across country, frequently exclaim,
“Here is an inn; let us rest awhile”? But that was in the leisurely days
gone by when mortals had more time to call their own. I have often
wondered, could he be conjured back to life again, what the worthy
doctor would think of present-time ways, what he would say of the
railways, but above all, what his opinion would be of the huge company
hotel, where he would find his individuality merged in a mere number. I
trow he would prefer his comfortable tavern, where he could have his
quiet talk--and listeners.

I find, by referring to some ancient and valued road-books in my
possession, that the two chief inns of the coaching age at Barnet were
the “Red Lion” and the “Green Man,” each patronised by rival coaches.
The latter sign I imagine, judging from the frequent mention of it in
the same authorities, to have been at the period a very common and
popular one, though now apparently gone entirely out of favour. What was
the origin of this strange sign I cannot say, but it may be remembered
that green men--that is, men with their faces, arms, and hands stained
that hue, and their bodies covered with skins--were frequently to be
found amongst the processions and pageants of the sight-loving Middle
Ages, such a “get-up” being intended to represent a savage, and constant
mention of them was made in the old writings and plays. In the play of
_The Cobblers Prophecy_ (1594) one of the characters is

[Sidenote: _“THE GREEN MAN”_]

made to say, “Comes there a pageant by? Then I’ll stand out of the green
man’s way.” I find also, in Dr. Brewer’s _Handbook of Allusions_, an
extract given from a play of a year later, entitled, _The Seven
Champions of Christendom_, which runs as follows:--“Have you any squibs,
or green man in your shows?” During the next century, and for some time
afterwards, gamekeepers were usually clad in green, a fact noted by
Crabbe:

    But the green man shall I pass by unsung?...
    A squire’s attendant clad in keeper’s green.

At one or other of these two once famous hostels the old coaches took
their first change out, or their last change in, and not much time was
allowed for or lost in the changing either; for if our ancestors,
according to modern notions, made haste slowly, at least they made all
the haste they knew. The now quiet (except at the time of the noted
horse fair) Barnet High Street was then astir all the day long and half
the night with the coming and going of coaches, to say nothing of
“posters,” and the roadway rang with the rattle and clatter of fast
travelling teams, the air was resonant with the musical echoes of the
frequent horn, whilst the hurried shout of “next change” kept the
inn-yards alive and ready, the ostlers alert. Steam has changed all
this; now we travel more speedily but less picturesquely, more
luxuriously but less romantically. Why, the very meaning of the word
travel--derived, my dictionary informs me, from “travail; excessive
toil”--has surely wholly lost its signification in this easy-going age
of Pullman cars, and mail steamers that are in reality floating palaces?
Yet somehow I sometimes find myself sighing for a little less luxury and
speed, and for more of the picturesqueness and goodfellowship engendered
by the conditions of old-time travel, that stands out in such sharp
antithesis to the ugliness and unmannerly taciturnity that has come with
the railway; the ugliness is universal, but the taciturnity, for some
cause I cannot fathom, is confined mostly to England.

Said a prominent citizen of Chicago to me one day, upon his arrival at
St. Pancras Station, where I went to meet him as my visitor, in response
to my greetings: “Well, sir, as you kindly ask me, I guess I had a
mighty pleasant voyage in the steamer, and found your countrymen aboard
most agreeable and entertaining; but when I got on the cars at Liverpool
with four other Britishers, we had a regular Quakers’ meeting-time all
the way to London, and when I chanced to make a remark they really
appeared utterly astonished that a stranger should venture to address
them. Now that just strikes me as peculiar, and if that’s your
land-travelling manners I guess I don’t much admire them; surely there’s
no sin in one stranger politely speaking to another; indeed, it seems
sort of rude to me to get into a car and never as much as utter ‘Good
morning,’ or ‘I beg your pardon,’ as you pass a party by to take your
seat. Perhaps you can tell me just how it is that your countrymen are so
stand-offish on the cars?” But we could not answer the question
satisfactorily to the querist or to ourselves.

[Sidenote: _A “PHYSIC WELL”_]

It may be news to many--it was to me till the other day, when quite
accidentally I came across the fact in an ancient road-book--that in the
days of Charles II. Barnet was a watering-place of considerable repute,
even disputing supremacy with its rising rival of Tunbridge Wells. In a
field near the town on the Elstree Road is the formerly famous but now
almost forgotten chalybeate spring known two centuries ago as the
“Physic Well,” and much resorted to by the fashionable folk of the
Restoration days. On glancing over the ever fresh and entertaining
_Diary_ of Samuel Pepys, that chatty old-time road-traveller, who was
always getting up “betimes” and starting off somewhere or another, I
noted the following entry:--“11 August 1667 (Lord’s Day).--Up by four
o’clock, and ready with Mrs. Turner” (why so often without your wife,
good Mr. Pepys?) “to take coach before five; and set out on our journey,
and got to the Wells at Barnett by seven o’clock” (not a great rate of
speed), “and there found many people a-drinking; but the morning is a
very cold morning, so as we were very cold all the way in the coach....
So after drinking three glasses, and the women nothing” (wise women),
“we back by coach to Barnett, where to the Red Lyon, where we ’light,
and went up into the great room, and drank and eat ... and so to
Hatfield,” where he “took coach again, and got home with great content.”

Amongst my prized possessions is a quaint and ancient map of London and
the country for about twenty miles round. This interesting map I find,
by an inscription enclosed in a roll at the foot, was printed, and
presumably engraved, in Amsterdam, when I cannot say, for unfortunately
no date is given; an antiquarian friend of mine, however (an authority
on old prints), declares it to be of about the time of Charles II.,
though he says it might possibly be copied from an earlier production of
the same kind and made up to that approximate date. It is just probable,
therefore, that Mr. Pepys may have seen, and used, a similar map; and on
mine I find “Barnett Wells” duly marked at a point about a mile
south-west of the town.

These ancient maps, besides being very interesting, oftentimes reveal
the origin of puzzling place-names otherwise untraceable; for instance,
I never could account for the peculiar title of the little Sussex town
of Uckfield until one day I found it spelt “Oakefield” on an old map,
and as oaks still abound in the locality, I have no doubt that Uckfield
was evolved therefrom; and I could enumerate many other instances of a
like nature. So, on further consulting my Amsterdam chart, I find
Hatfield, which we shall reach in due course, given as
“Heathfield,”--now from this to Hatfield is an easy transition; next I
observe that the country immediately north of Barnet is represented as
wild and unenclosed, and is marked “Gladmore Heath.” A corner of this
bears the gruesome but suggestive title “Dead-man’s Bottom”: it is
highly probable that the famous battle of Barnet was fought on this open
waste, it being a suitable site for such a conflict, and the “Dead-man’s
Bottom” may mark

[Sidenote: _AN INTERESTING MAP_]

the spot where a number of the slain were buried. Hertfordshire is also
rendered, as now generally pronounced, “Hartfordshire,” so perhaps it is
the spelling, not the pronunciation, that has changed. A wonderful
production is this old map, for in the apparently sparsely populated
country around the then moderate-sized city of London each church tower
is pictured in miniature; even solitary houses, including numerous
farmsteads, are so shown; tiny drawings of windmills abound; and on the
rivers, wheels are marked here and there, evidently intended to point
out the position of sundry water-mills; bridges over the rivers are
infrequent, but fords across and ferries over them are plentiful; now
and again one is reminded of other days and other ways by a dot,
inscribed above or below, simply but sufficiently “The Gallows”--a
familiar but gruesome spectacle, the reality of which must often have
been forced on the unwelcome sight of past-time travellers, and possibly
haunted the memories and dreams of the more nervous amongst them for
long afterwards. Even at one lonely place the map condescends to place a
solitary tree with the title “Half-way Tree.” On the little river Wandle
several water-mills are shown, most of which bear merely names, but
sometimes is added the kind of mill. I note on this same short stream
the following kinds: “Iron mill,” “copper mill,” “pouder mill,” and one
“brasile mill,” whatever that may be. On the river Lea I find a “paper
mill,” but that is the only one of the sort I can discover, though
“pouder” mills abound. The latter perhaps were called into requisition
by the recent Civil wars. One lonely house is marked “hanted.” Could
this possibly mean haunted? But I must stop my disquisition, for I could
easily discourse for a whole chapter upon this curious map, were I to
let my pen run away with me as it is inclined to do.




CHAPTER II

     Memorial of a great battle--An ancient fire-cresset--Free
     feasting!--Country quiet--Travellers’ tales--Hatfield--An
     Elizabethan architect--An author’s tomb--Day-dreaming--Mysterious
     roadside monuments--Great North Road _versus_ Great Northern
     Railway--Stevenage--Chats by the way--Field life--Nature as a
     painter--Changed times.


Leaving Barnet, we soon reached a bit of triangular green enlivened by a
pond that was just then monopolised by geese; here, where the old and
formerly famous “Parliamentary and Mail Coach Turnpike” to Holyhead
diverges from the almost equally famous Great North Road of the
pre-railway days, stands a gray stone obelisk that challenges the
attention of the passer-by, and is inscribed with history thus:

                               Here was
                              Fought the
                             Famous Battle
                            Between Edward
                           the 4th. and the
                            Earl of Warwick
                            April the 14th.
                                 Anno
                                 1471.
                           In which the Earl
                             Was defeated
                              And Slain.

I regret to have to record that immediately below this inscription, cut
also in the stone, and in the same kind and size of lettering, is the
obtrusive warning notice, so over-familiar to nineteenth-century eyes,
“Stick no Bills.” What bathos this!

Here at Hadley the ancient church tower is surmounted by a rare and
interesting relic of the never-returning past in the shape of an iron
cresset or fire-beacon. The last time that this was used seriously was
in 1745, during the scare occasioned by the Stuart rising in the North.
The story goes that at the late hour in the evening when the beacon was
lighted, a large party from London, who had been feasting at the “Red
Lion” at Barnet upon the best that mine host could lay before them, all
rushed out during the excitement and quite forgot to return and pay
their reckoning! A curious example of forgetfulness caused by
excitement, as the fact that their bill remained unpaid never appears to
have occurred to any of the party in after days! This is a sample of one
of the stories of the road that, improved upon and embellished to fancy,
the coachmen of the past used to entertain their passengers with; there
was hardly a house, and certainly very few inns, on the way but had some
little incident, history, or tradition connected with it; these latter
afforded the jehus of the period (past-masters in the art of
embroidering fiction upon fact) plenty of raw material for the
production of their wonderful fund of anecdotes. My grandfather, who had
travelled a good deal by coach in his early life, said that the virtue
of these stories lay not so much in the matter as in

[Sidenote: _AN ANCIENT BEACON_]

the inimitable way in which they were told; but therein is the art of
story-telling--the craft of making much out of simple materials.

The primitive mode of signalling events by beacon had this serious
drawback, that, should any one beacon by accident or set purpose be set
alight, needless alarm was forthwith spread throughout the land, and no
amount of care in watching the various collections of piled-up wood and
other inflammable material could, experience proved, prevent mischievous
or designing persons from sometimes surreptitiously lighting them; on
the other hand, when they were lighted legitimately, possibly fraught
with warning of great import to the State, sudden fogs and storms
occasionally prevented the message from speeding on its way. It must
have been both a picturesque and a thrilling sight in “the brave days of
old” for the expectant watchers on some commanding eminence to observe
the progress of the blazing beacons, as one answered the other from
height to height, the ruddy glare of the fiery signals gleaming plainly
forth against the darkness of the night.

On from Hadley to Hatfield we had an excellent road, that led us through
a prettily wooded and pleasantly undulating country. As we drove along,
rejoicing in the pure sweet air and rural quietude after the smoke-laden
atmosphere and noise of town, the sunshine kept struggling through the
gray clouds overhead, and great gleams of golden light came and went,
warming and brightening up the little world around us, and enhancing the
natural beauty of the scenery by the varied effects they produced on
the landscape. A gleamy day is a picture-making and picture-suggesting
day, as artists full well know. By the time we reached Hatfield the sun
above had obtained complete mastery of the situation, and was doing his
best to make all things below pleasant for us.

At Hatfield we pulled up at another “Red Lion,” and there we elected to
rest a while and “refresh the inner man,” as the country-paper reporters
have it, for our halt at Barnet was solely for the benefit of our
horses. In the coffee-room we found a party of four gentlemen lunching;
laughing and talking, their conversation was carried on in so loud a
tone of voice that, willing or unwilling, we could not help hearing
nearly all they said; their jovial jokes they made public property, and
the general good-humour and enjoyment of the party was quite infectious.
Manifestly they had no fear of strangers overhearing their tales and
talk, which rather surprised us, as sundry anecdotal reminiscences of
famous personages were freely related, which, if one could only have
felt sure of their veracity, would have been most entertaining. It was
indeed a right merry, possibly an inventive, and certainly a rather
noisy, quartet. Truly the various people that the road-traveller comes
in contact with from time to time often dispute interest with the
scenery. As Sir Arthur Helps says, “In travel it is remarkable how much
more pleasure we obtain from unexpected incidents than from deliberate
sight-seeing,” and it certainly appears to me that a driving tour
specially

[Sidenote: _ARTIST AND AUTHOR_]

lends itself to meeting with incidents. Such an informal and unusual way
of wandering puts you as a rule on a friendly, companionable footing
with everybody you meet: people take an interest in your journey, they
confide in you and you in them, there is a sort of freemasonry about the
road that has its attractions, you seem to belong to the countryside, to
be a part and parcel of your surroundings for the time being, in strong
contrast with the stranger suddenly arriving by the railway from
somewhere far away. He is brought, the driving tourist comes--a
distinction with a difference!

       *       *       *       *       *

But to return to the coffee-room of our inn. Amongst the anecdotes that
were forced upon our attention, one still remains in my memory, and this
I think worth repeating as a fair sample of the rest, and because it
deserves to be true, though possibly it is not, or only in part;
however, here it is, and I trust if any one of that merry company should
by chance read this, they will pardon the liberty I have taken--or else
be more careful of their conversation for the future in public! The
story is of a perfectly harmless nature, and characteristic of the
parties concerned, or I would not repeat it. It appears then that one
day Carlyle was making a first call upon Millais at his fine mansion in
Palace Gate. After looking around the sumptuous interior, Carlyle
presently exclaimed, in his gruff manner, “What! all from paint?”
Millais made no reply at the moment, but as his guest was leaving he
quietly remarked, “By the way, what a reputation you’ve got,
Carlyle--and all from ink.”

One anecdote begets another, and the foregoing distantly reminds me of a
story of Turner that came to me through a private source, which
therefore I do not believe has got into print yet--but I may be
mistaken. Once upon a time then--as the fairy stories begin, for I am
not certain about the exact date, and do not care to guess it--a certain
art patron demanded of Turner the price of one of his pictures, with a
view to purchasing the same, and deeming that Turner asked rather a
large sum, he jokingly exclaimed, “What, all those golden guineas for so
much paint on so much canvas?” To which the famous artist replied, “Oh
no, not for the paint, but for the use of the brains to put it on with!”
and I think the artist scored.

Now I am wandering again, but not by road, as I set out to do, and
instead of enjoying the pleasant scenery and fresh air, I am wasting the
time indoors chatting about people. Let us get into the open country
again, and before we start on the next stage, there will be just time to
stroll round and take a glance at the fine old Jacobean pile of Hatfield
House, a glorious specimen of the renaissance of English architecture
that vividly recalls the half-forgotten fact that once we were, without
gainsaying, an artistic people; for no one but a great artist could have
designed such a picturesque and stately abode, two qualities not so easy
to combine as may be imagined.

It is a most singular fact that the name of the architect of this
majestic mansion is not known; but the building so distinctly reminds me
of the work of John Thorpe that I have no hesitation in putting it down
to his creative genius. He was beyond all doubt the greatest architect
of the Elizabethan age; it was he who designed the glorious mansions of
Burleigh “by Stamford town,” Longford Castle, Wollaton Hall, most
probably Hardwicke Hall, Holland House, and many other notable and
picturesque piles, not to forget Kirby in Northants, now, alas! a
splendid ruin, which we shall visit on our homeward way.

[Sidenote: _THE STONES OF ENGLAND_]

Writing of the stately homes of England, it seems to me that the stones
of England have their story to tell as well as the “Stones of Venice,”
over which Ruskin goes into such raptures. Why is it ever thus, that
other lands seem more attractive than our own; wherein lies the virtue
of the far-away? Who will do for Old England at our own doors what
Ruskin has so lovingly done for Venice of the past? What a song in stone
is Salisbury’s splendid cathedral, with its soaring spire rising like an
arrow into the air; what a poem is Tintern’s ruined abbey by the lovely
Wye-side; what a romance in building is Haddon’s feudal Hall; what a
picture is Compton Wynyates’ moated manor-house! and these are but
well-known specimens, jotted down hastily and at haphazard, of countless
other such treasures, that are scattered all over our pleasant land in
picturesque profusion, but which I will not attempt to enumerate
catalogue fashion.

Between Hatfield and Welwyn I find no mention of the country in my
note-book, nor does my memory in any way call it to mind; the scenery,
therefore, could not have impressed us, and so may be termed of the
uneventful order. At the sleepy little town of Welwyn we came upon its
gray-toned church standing close by the road, and as we noticed the door
thereof was invitingly open, we called a halt in order to take a peep
inside. We made it a point this journey never to pass by an ancient
church, if near at hand, without stepping within for a glance, should
happily, as in this case, the door be open; but with one or two rare
exceptions we did not go a-clerk-hunting,--that sport is apt to pall
upon the traveller in time, unless he be a very hardened antiquary or
ardent ecclesiologist. It was an open or closed door that generally
settled the point for us, whether to see a certain church or leave it
unseen! We were not guide-book compilers, we did not undertake our
journey with any set idea of “doing” everything, we took it solely for
the purpose of spending a pleasant holiday, so we went nowhere nor saw
anything under compulsion. I think it well to explain our position thus
clearly at the start, so that I may not hereafter be reproached for
passing this or that unvisited; nor now that our outing is over do I
believe we missed much that was noteworthy on the way--nothing, indeed,
of which I am aware; though, by some strange caprice of fate, it ever
seems that when the traveller returns home from a tour, should anything
escape his observation thereon, some kind friend is certain to assure
him that just what he failed to see happened to be the very thing of the
whole journey the best worth seeing! Indeed, this incident so

[Sidenote: _A SELF-APPOINTED GUIDE_]

regularly re-occurs to me, that I have become quite philosophical on the
subject! There is no novelty about the same experience often repeated;
the only rejoinder it provokes on my part is a smiling “Of course,” or a
mild, remonstrating “Oh! I left that for another day.”

On entering Welwyn church, we encountered a talkative old body; why she
was there I cannot say, for she was apparently doing nothing, and this
is no tourist-haunted region with guides of both sexes on the watch and
wait for the unwary; but there she was, a substantial personage not to
be overlooked. At once she attached herself to us, and asked if we had
come to see Dr. Young’s tomb--“him as wrote the _Night Thoughts_.” We
meekly replied that we did not even know that he was buried there.
“Well,” she responded, “now I do wonders at that, I thoughts as how
everybody knew it.” From the superior tone in which she said this, we
felt that she looked down upon us as ignoramuses--such is the lot of the
traveller who does not know everything! Then she pointed out with a
grimy finger--assuming the aggravating air of one who has valuable
information to impart, and will impart it whether you will or no--a
marble slab put up to the memory of the worthy doctor (I presume he was
a worthy doctor) on the south wall of the nave. Having duly inspected
this, our self-appointed guide suddenly exclaimed, still maintaining her
amusing didactic manner, “He’d much better have gone to bed and slept
like a good Christian than have sit up o’ nights a-writing his
thoughts.” We weakly smiled acquiescence, though perhaps it was hardly
a fair thing to do, for we had to confess to ourselves that we had not
even read the book in question. “Have you?” we queried. “Lor’ bless you,
sir,” replied she, still in an authoritative tone of voice, “books is
all rubbish, I never reads rubbish; give me the papers with some news in
’em, I says, that’s the reading for me,” and with this we took our
hurried departure. We have taught the people to read, which is a most
excellent thing, but, from all my experience, the country folk prefer
newspapers, frequently of a trashy nature, to solid books; for the
present they devour the “penny dreadful,” whilst the cheap classic
remains unread!

Out of Welwyn the road mounted slightly, and to our left we passed a
large park; the sun’s rays glinting down between the big tree-trunks
therein sent long lines of golden light athwart the smooth sward, and
the lengthening shadows suggested to us that the day was growing old,
and that, unless we wished to be belated, we had better hasten on. Then
followed a pleasant stretch of wooded country, the west all aglow with
the glory of the setting sun, whilst a soft grayness was gradually
spreading over the east, blotting out all trivial details, and causing
the landscape there to assume a dim, mysterious aspect; in that
direction the scenery might be commonplace enough in the glaring light
of mid-day--possibly it was, but just then under that vague effect it
looked quite poetical, and by giving our romantic fancies full rein we
could almost have imagined that there lay the enchanted forest of

[Sidenote: _A ROADSIDE ENIGMA_]

fairy-tale renown. A little occasional romancing may be allowed on a
driving tour; he is a dull and unpoetic soul, indeed, who never indulges
in a moment’s harmless day-dreaming now and again!

Soon the slumberous, unprogressive little town of Stevenage came in
view, and just before it, on a green space to the right of the road, we
espied six curious-looking, grass-grown mounds all in a row, like so
many pigmy green pyramids. We afterwards learnt that these are supposed
to be Danish Barrows; but learned antiquaries, like most of their kind,
are not all agreed upon this point, though the majority hold to the
Danish theory. Still, Danish or not, there they stand to challenge the
curiosity of the observant wayfarer. A roadside enigma that doubtless
puzzled our forefathers, and afforded food for discussion when
journeying in these parts, the railway traveller misses them and much
else besides as he is whirled through the land at a speed that only
permits of a blurred impression of fields and woods, of rivers and
hills, of church towers, towns, hamlets, and farmsteads--that is, when
the train is not rushing through a cutting, or plunging into a darksome
tunnel. In a scenic sense between the Great North Road and the Great
Northern Railway is a vast gulf!

At the present day, at any rate at the time we were there, these
prehistoric relics were serving the undistinguished purpose of a
ready-made and somewhat original recreation-ground for the town’s
children; for as we passed by we observed quite a number of them
climbing up and down the barrows, playing “King of the Castle” thereon,
and generally romping over and round about them with much noisy
merriment. I really think that these ancient mounds deserve to be better
cared for; those things that are worthy of being preserved should be
preserved, for antiquity once destroyed can never be replaced; it is too
late when a monument of the past has disappeared to discover how
interesting it was.

At Stevenage we put up for the night at the “White Lion,” a homely
little hostelry, where we found clean and comfortable, if not luxurious,
quarters for ourselves, and good accommodation for our horses, and not
being of an exacting nature, were well content. So ended our first long
day’s wanderings.

We had seen so much since we left London in the early morning, that we
felt it difficult to realise, on the authority of our copy of
_Paterson’s Roads_ (last edition of 1829), we had only travelled some
thirty-one miles; the precise distance we could not arrive at, since
Paterson takes his measurement from “Hick’s Hall,” and we did not start
from the site thereof; indeed, exactly where “Hick’s Hall” stood I am
not very clear--somewhere in Smithfield, I believe.

Next morning, following the excellent example of the chatty Mr. Pepys,
and to borrow his favourite expression, we “awoke betimes,” to find the
sunshine streaming in through our windows, whilst a glance outside
revealed to us a glorious bright blue sky, flecked with fleecy
fine-weather clouds.

[Sidenote: _LEISURELY TRAVEL_]

This cheery morning greeting could not be resisted, so, early though it
was, we got up and dressed without any needless delay, and, sketch-book
in hand, set forth to explore the place before breakfast, which,
however, we took the precaution of ordering to be ready for us on our
return, for it is trying for a hungry man to have to wait for his meal!
Before going out, however, we paid our usual visit of inspection to the
horses, who, we discovered, were having their toilet performed for them,
luxurious creatures! though not without much “sishing,” and subdued
exclamations of “Whoa! my beauty,” “Steady there now,” “Hold up, can’t
yer”--sounds and utterances dear to the hearts of grooms and ostlers. We
were glad to note that the horses looked fit and fresh, and not a whit
the worse for their previous hard day’s work.

On the road we have always found that it is the pace rather than the
distance that “knocks up cattle”; but haste formed no part of our
programme, as we travelled to see and enjoy the scenery, not merely to
pass through it, to sketch, to photograph, to inspect a ruin, or to do
whatever took our fancy at the time; also to chat at our leisure with
any one who appeared to be interesting and willing to chat--prepared
under those conditions to converse with anybody from a ploughboy to a
peer that chance might bring across our path, so that we might learn
“how the world wags” according to the different parties’ views.

As Montaigne remarked, “Every man knows some one thing better than I do,
and when I meet a stranger therefore I engage him in conversation to
find that one thing out.” So we have discovered that even a
lightly-esteemed ploughboy, familiar all his life with Nature in her
many moods, at home in the fields and hedgerows, could tell us many
things we did not know, which are common knowledge to him. A chat with
an intelligent ploughboy, for such boys exist, may prove a profitable
and interesting experience, for perchance it may be racy of the soil,
full of the ways of wild birds and winged things, of the doings of
hares, rabbits, weasels, foxes, and other animals belonging to the
countryside, and of countless idle-growing things besides; above all, it
is genuinely rural, and conveys an unmistakable flavour of the open air.

An intelligent rustic is unconsciously a close Nature-observer, and by
listening to what he has got to say, if you can only get him to talk and
keep him to his subject, you may make valuable use of the eyes of others
who can see, but give small thought to what they see.

The works of White of Selborne and of Richard Jefferies have proved how
attractive and refreshing to the town-tired brain are the faithful and
simple record of the natural history of the English fields and
woodlands, and the descriptions of the charms and beauties of the
English country in all its varied aspects. One great value of such
writings is that they induce people to search for, and teach them how to
seek out, similar beauties for themselves in their everyday
surroundings, that they never before so much as imagined to exist. So
that truly a new, a costless, and a lasting pleasure in life is opened
out to them.

[Sidenote: _A “THOROUGHFARE” TOWN_]

We found Stevenage to be a quiet, neat little town of the “thoroughfare”
type, to employ a term much in vogue in the coaching days when
describing places consisting chiefly of one long street. Wandering
about, we noticed an old building that had manifestly been a hostelry of
some importance in the pre-railway period, the archway giving entrance
to the stable-yard still remaining. Now the building is converted into a
pleasant residence, though, owing to the necessities of its former uses,
it stands too close to the roadway to afford that privacy which the
home-loving Briton so dearly delights in; which, on the other hand, the
average American citizen so heartily dislikes, considering such
comparative seclusion to make for dulness, and to savour of
unsociability. Such old buildings, converted, wholly or in part, from
inns to houses, are to be found frequently along the Great North Road. A
stranger, not aware of the fact, might well wonder why those great
houses were built with their ample arches in the little village street,
and so close upon the roadside.

At one end of the town we found a rather pretty gabled cottage with a
high-pitched roof, from which rose a good group of chimneys. This
cottage, with its tiny garden railed off from the footpath by a wooden
paling, made quite a charming subject for the pencil, and was the first
to adorn our sketch-book. Whilst putting a few finishing touches to our
drawing, a native came up. An artist at work always seems to have an
irresistible attraction for country people. He opened up a conversation
by admiring our sketch, though in a qualified manner. He was pleased to
say that it was “mighty” pretty, only he preferred a photograph to a
drawing any day. He had had a photograph taken of his house lately, and
on the photograph you could count every brick on the walls and every
tile on the roofs. “Now, that’s what I call a proper kind of
picture,--not but that yours is very nice for hand-work”!

This is a very fair specimen of the criticisms that the long-enduring
landscape painter has frequently to put up with when at work in the
open.

Next our art-critic and photograph-admirer presumed that we must be
strangers, as he knew most of the folk round about, but did not remember
having “sighted us afore.” We replied that we were. “Now, do you know,”
responded he, “I was sure of that”; and seeing no advantage in further
continuing the conversation, we hastened off to our inn--and breakfast.

In spite of our early rising, it was ten o’clock before we got “under
weigh,” but when one sets out exploring and sketching, to say nothing of
gossiping, time flies.

It was one of those rare and perfect days that come only now and then in
the year, which, when they come, linger lovingly in the memory for long
after. A stilly day of soft sunshine wherein is no glare; overhead great
rounded clouds of golden white, shading off into a tender pearly-gray,
were sailing slowly across a sea of pure, pale blue,--clouds

[Sidenote: _CLOUD SCENERY_]

ever varying in size and form, so that the eye was involuntarily
attracted to the scenery of the sky, as well as to that of the land; for
the changeful sky-scape--as Turner, Constable, and other painters have
shown--lends a wonderful charm to our English scenery,--clouds that
caused vast cool-gray shadows to chase each other in endless succession
over the wide countryside, till, space-diminished, the shadows vanished
into infinity, where the circling gray of the dim horizon melted into a
misty nothingness.

The warmth of the cheerful sunshine was tempered by a soothing southerly
wind--a lazy wind that came to us laden with a mingling of fragrant
country odours distilled from flower, field, tree, and countless green
growing things as it lightly passed them by. It was a day inspiriting
enough, one would have imagined, to convert even a confirmed pessimist
into a cheerful optimist, and for us it made the fact of simply existing
a something to be thankful for!

Manifestly the Fates were kindly disposed towards us. It was no small
matter to start forth thus in the fulness and freshness of such a
morning, free as the air we breathed, with our holiday only just
beginning, its pleasures barely tasted, and positively no solicitude
whatever except to reach an inn for the night; in truth, there was no
room for the demon Care in our dog-cart, so he was compelled to stay
behind “out of sight” and “out of mind.” We were purely on pleasure
bent, and we managed very successfully to maintain that part of our
programme from the beginning to the end of our tour. Good health means
good spirits, and being out so much in the open air, we laid in a
plentiful stock of the former. An out-of-door life, such as the one we
led, without fatigue, and with a sufficiency of interest to pleasurably
engage the attention, is the finest tonic in the world, I verily
believe, for mind and body, bracing both up; so that the answer of the
happy driving tourist to the doleful query, “Is life worth living?”
would be, to employ the schoolboy’s expressive slang, “Very much so.”

After Stevenage we entered upon a pleasantly undulating and purely
agricultural and pastoral country, with nothing noteworthy till we came
to a neat little village that we made out from our map to be Graveley.
Here an unpretending inn, the “George and Dragon” to wit, boasted of a
fine wrought-iron support for its sign, doubtless a relic of a past
prosperity when this was a much-travelled highway, and the hostelries on
the road had the benefit of many customers. We noticed that the painting
of the sign, at least in our estimation, was sadly inferior in artistic
spirit to the clever craftsmanship displayed in the iron-work supporting
it; possibly the sign-board was of old as artistically limned as its
support was wrought, but the weathering of years would efface the
drawing and colouring, and later and less skilful hands may have renewed
the design, whilst, of course, the more enduring iron would still retain
its ancient charm of form unimpaired.

The gracefulness and bold curving and twisting of the metal-work that
supports and upholds the sign of many an ancient coaching inn had a
peculiar fascination for us, and frequently brought our pencil

[Sidenote: _A CONCEIT IN METAL_]

into requisition to record their varied outlines and quaint conceits,
that truly splendid specimen of the “Bell” at Stilton--about which I
shall have more to say when we arrive there--especially delighting us.
At the sign of a certain “White Hart” elsewhere we could not but imagine
that the open iron-work above it in the shape of a heart was not
accidental, but intended as a play on words in metal, if the expression
may be allowed.

After Graveley the road plucked up a little spirit and the scenery
improved, just as though it were doing its best to please us. At one
point there suddenly opened a fine view to the left, reaching over a
vast extent of country bounded by an uneven horizon of wooded
hills--hills that showed as a long, low undulating line, deeply blue,
but enlivened by touches of greeny-gold where the sunshine rested for a
moment here and there; it was as if Nature in one of her lavish moods
had washed the horizon over with a tint of ultramarine, “for who can
paint like Nature?”--little she recks the quantity or the rarity of the
hues she employs, miles upon miles oftentimes, and that for a mere
transient effect! To our right also our charmed visions ranged over a
wide expanse of wooded plain, so space-expressing in its wealth of
distances, the blue of which made us realise the ocean of air that lay
between us and the remote horizon, the reality of the invisible!

After the confined limits of the house-bound streets of town, our eyes
positively rejoiced in the unaccustomed freedom of roving unrestrained
over so much space--a sudden change from yards to miles! I have found
from experience what a relief it is for the eye to be able thus to alter
its focus from the near to the far-away: the vision like the mind is apt
to become cramped by not being able to take a broad view of things. I
verily believe that the eyes are strengthened by having the daily
opportunity of exercising their full functions; this may be a fanciful
belief on my part, but I hold it and write advisedly.

Gradually, as we proceeded, our road widened out, and was bounded on
either hand by pleasant grassy margins, that, had we been on a riding
instead of a driving tour, would certainly have tempted us to indulge in
a canter. These grassy margins used to form part of the hard, well-kept
highway when there was room for four coaches abreast at one time
thereon. I wonder whether these spare spaces will ever be utilised for
cycle tracks?

What, I further wonder, would our ancestors--could they come back to
life again, and travel once more along the old familiar roads--think of
the new steel-steed, and what would they make of the following notice,
appended to the sign of an old inn on the way, which we deemed worthy of
being copied?--

                          Good Accommodation
                                  and
                               Stabling
                                  for
                        Cyclists and Motorists.

This brings to mind the truth that lies in the old Latin saying,
_Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis_.




CHAPTER III

     A gipsy encampment--A puzzling matter--Farming and farmers past and
     present--An ancient market-town--A picturesque bit of old-world
     architecture--Gleaners--Time’s changes--A house in two counties--A
     wayside inn--The commercial value of the picturesque.


On one of the grassy wastes by the roadside, a sheltered corner overhung
by branching elms, we espied a gipsy encampment. A very effective and
pretty picture the encampment made with its belongings and green setting
of grass and foliage. There were three brilliantly-coloured caravans
drawn up in an irregular line and partly screening from view the same
number of brown tents; in and out of caravans and tents sun-tanned and
gay-kerchiefed children were noisily rampaging; from amidst the brown
tents a spiral film of faint blue smoke lazily ascended, to be lost to
sight in the bluer sky above; and to complete a ready-made picture, the
gipsies’ horses were tethered close at hand, grazing on the rough sward.
Truly the gipsy is a picturesque personage, though I have to confess he
is not much beloved in the country; yet I should regret to have him
improved entirely away, for he does bring colour and the flavour of
wild, free life on to the scene, well suiting the English landscape.

The gipsy, for reasons best known to himself, is apt to resent the
advances of strangers, even when made in the most amiable manner. The
artist, who, for the sake of his picturesqueness and paintable
qualities, is inclined to overlook the gipsy’s possible sins of
commission on other people’s property, finds it difficult to sketch him;
for myself, I am content to “snap-shot” him photographically on passing
by, as I did on this occasion; which proceeding, however, he was prompt
to resent with some gruffly muttered exclamation, to which we chaffingly
replied, in the blandest of voices, “But you know a cat may look at a
king.” Upon which he shouted after us, not in the politest of tones,
“Yes, but a photograph machine ain’t a cat, and I ain’t a king, nohow,”
and we felt that after all the gipsy had the best of the skirmish in
words. The gipsy is manifestly no fool, or, with so many enemies on all
sides, he would hardly have held his own for so long, and be extant and
apparently flourishing as he is to-day. “It’s the gipsy against the
world,” as a farmer once remarked to me, “and bless me if the gipsy
don’t somehow score in the struggle.”

As we passed by the encampment, the incense of burning wood, mingled
with sundry savoury odours, came wafted our way on the quiet air, and it
appeared to us that a gipsy’s life in the summer time was a sort of
continuous picnic, not without its charms. Such a charm it has indeed
for some minds, that we have more than once on previous expeditions
actually met imitations of the real article in the shape of lady and
gentleman gipsies (the term truly seems

[Sidenote: _CARAVANNING_]

rather a misnomer), touring about in smartly turnedout caravans, driven
by liveried coachmen. But all this seems to me far too respectable and
luxurious to be quite delightful. The dash of Bohemianism about it is
absurdly artificial; moreover, the coming of a caravan, both from its
size and unfamiliar appearance, of necessity invites an amount of
attention that is not always desirable, and is frequently very annoying.
Speaking for myself, I must say that when I travel I endeavour to
attract as little notice as possible; I go to observe, not to be
observed. Still, every one to his taste. If I have not become a
caravannist myself, it is certainly not from want of having the charms,
real or imagined, of that wandering and expensive life on wheels
instilled into me by a friend who owns a pleasure caravan, and has
travelled over a goodly portion of southern England in it, though he had
to confess to me, under close cross-examination, that there were certain
“trifling” drawbacks connected with the amateur gipsy’s life: first,
there was the aforementioned unavoidable publicity that a large caravan
entails; then there was the slow pace such a cumbrous conveyance imposes
on you at all times; the heat of the interior caused by the sun beating
on the exterior in hot summer days; to say nothing of having to go, at
the end of a long day’s journey, in search of camping ground for the
night, entailing often a loss of time and a good deal of trouble before
suitable quarters are found and permission to use them is obtained;
besides this, there is stabling to secure, and a foraging expedition has
to be undertaken, hardly a pleasure should the weather be wet! Whilst a
simple inn is all that the more modest and less encumbered
driving-tourist needs.

As we proceeded on our way, our attention was presently arrested by
something strange and quite novel to us: on the telegraph wires, that
stretched forth in long lines by the roadside, were suspended numerous
little square bits of tin, and this for a considerable distance. The
bits of tin, as they were swayed about by the wind, made weird music on
the wires. Had we chanced to have driven that way at night, and heard
those sounds coming directly down from the darkness above, without being
able to discover the cause, we should have been much mystified; indeed,
some hyper-nervous people passing there in the dark, under the same
circumstances of wind and weather, might have come to the conclusion
that this portion of the Great North Road was haunted. Such reputations
have been established from lesser causes.

We were at a loss to account for the strange arrangement, so we looked
about for somebody to question on the subject, and to solve the mystery
for us if possible. There was not a soul in sight on the road, far off
or near; for that matter, there never is when wanted. However, another
look around revealed a man at work in a field near by, and to him we
went and sought for the information desired, and this is the explanation
we received in the original wording: “What be them tin things for on the
telegraph postes?” They were really on the wires, but I have long ago
discovered that you

[Sidenote: _A CHAT BY THE WAY_]

must not expect exactness from the average countryman. “Why, they be put
there on account of the partridges. You see, the birds, when they be
a-flying fast like, don’t always see them wires, and lots of them gets
hurt and killed by striking themselves against them. You know, sir, as
how partridges is partridges, and has to be taken great care on; if the
quality only took the same care of the poor working-man, we should be
happy.” The poor working-man, or labourer, in the present case did not
appear very miserable or poorly clad, so we ventured to remark: “Well,
you don’t seem particularly unhappy anyhow.” At the same moment a small
coin of the realm changed ownership in return for the information
imparted, and we went our way, and the man resumed his work, after
promising to drink our very good healths that very night, and we saw no
reason to doubt that the promise would be faithfully kept. The one thing
you may positively rely upon the countryman doing, if you give him the
opportunity, is “to drink your health.”

I may note here that during my many chats with the English labourer, in
different counties far apart from each other, I have found their chief
complaint (when they have one and venture to express it) is not so much
the lowness of their wage, or the hardness of their work, as the
poorness of their dwellings. Even the farm-hand begins to expect
something better than the too often cold, damp, and draughty cottages
that for generations past, in some parts of the country more than
others, his “rude forefathers” had to put up with uncomplainingly, or
otherwise. It seems to me that the best way of stopping the emigration
from the country to the town is to make the country more attractive to
the countryman by housing him better. “But cottages don’t pay,” as a
landlord once informed me, and in this age it is difficult to make men
enter into philanthropic enterprises--unless they return a certain _per
cent_! A moneymaking generation likes to mix up philanthropy with
profit--to do good openly and make it pay privately!

From the agricultural labourer upwards to the farmer, and from the
farmer to the landowner, is an easy and natural transition. Now, since I
commenced taking my holidays on the road several years ago, agricultural
depression has, alas! gradually deepened, and my driving tours in rural
England have brought me into frequent contact with both landowner and
tenant farmer, and now and again with that sadly growing rarity the
independent and sturdy yeoman who farms his own little freehold,
perchance held by his ancestors for long centuries; with all of these I
have conversed about the “bad times,” and have obtained, I think, a
fairly comprehensive view of the situation from each standpoint.
Endeavouring, as far as is possible with fallible human nature, to take
the unprejudiced position of a perfectly neutral onlooker--a position
that has caused me in turn to heartily sympathise with each party--the
conclusion that I have reluctantly come to is this, that unless a great
war should be a disturbing factor in

[Sidenote: _AN OLD SAYING_]

the case--an ever-possible contingency, by the way--with cheapened ocean
transit and competition with new countries, land in Old England will no
longer produce a profit to the modern tenant as well as to the landlord,
and pay big tithes besides. It must be borne in mind that the tenant
farmer of to-day has progressed like the rest of the world. He needs
must possess a certain capital, and no longer is he or his family
content with the simple life or pleasures of his predecessors. His wife,
son, and daughters will not work on the farm, nor superintend the dairy,
as of old; they all expect, and I think rightly expect, in an age when
Board School children learn the piano and other accomplishments, a
little more refinement and ease. And if this be so, I take it that the
only way to solve the difficulty of making the land pay is somehow to
get back the disappearing yeoman: the pride of possession will alone
ensure prosperous farming. A local saying, possibly pertinent to the
question, was repeated to me one day by a large tenant farmer in the
Midlands, who had lost by farming well. It runs thus:

    He who improves may flit,
    He who destroys may sit.

And much truth underlies the proverbs of the countryside. Now a yeoman
would not have to “flit” for improving his freehold, and a man does not
generally destroy his own.

Whilst our thoughts had been wandering thus, the dog-cart had kept
steadily on its way, and our reverie was broken by finding ourselves in
the quaint old market-town of Baldock, driving down its spacious and
sunny main street, which we noticed with pleasure was lined with trees,
and bound by irregular-roofed buildings, mellowed by age into a
delicious harmony of tints. Nature never mixes her colours crudely. I
know no better study of colour harmonies than the weather-painting of a
century-old wall, with its splashes of gold, and silver, and bronze
lichen, its delicate greens and grays, its russets and oranges, and all
the innumerable and indescribable hues that the summer suns and winter
storms of forgotten years have traced upon its surface--hues blending,
contrasting, and commingling, the delight of every true artist, and his
despair to depict aright. With buildings age is the beautifier; even
Tintern, with its roofless aisles and broken arches, could not have
looked half as lovely in the full glory of its Gothic prime, when its
walls were freshly set, its sculptures new, and traceries recently
worked, as it looks now. No building, however gracefully designed, can
ever attain the perfection of its beauty till Time has placed his
finishing touches thereon, toning down this and tinting that, rounding
off a too-sharp angle here, and making rugged a too-smooth corner there,
adorning the walls with ivy and clinging creepers, and decorating the
roof with lustrous lichen!

Baldock had such a genuine air of antiquity about it, with its ancient
architecture and slumberous calm, so foreign to the present age, that we
felt that without any undue strain upon the imagination we could picture
ourselves as medieval travellers

[Sidenote: _QUAINT ALMS-HOUSES_]

arriving in a medieval market-town! Baldock does not suggest, as so many
country towns unfortunately do, a bit of suburban London uprooted and
dumped down in a distant shire. No, Baldock has somehow managed to
retain its own characteristic individuality, and it pleases the lover of
the picturesque past because of this. To the left of the broad roadway
our eyes were charmed by the sight of a quaint group of ancient
alms-houses, situated within a walled enclosure, through which wall a
graceful archway gave entrance to the homes. Whilst we were admiring
this pleasing specimen of old-time work, one of the inmates came out and
invited us inside; but the interior, upon inspection, did not attract us
as the exterior had done: the latter had not been spoilt by furniture or
paper, or any other modern addition, to disturb its charming and restful
harmony. The rooms looked comfortable enough, however, and the old body
who showed us over declared that she was more than satisfied with her
quarters,--even life in an alms-house could not affect her manifestly
cheerful and contented disposition. A prince in a palace could not have
looked more satisfied with his lot. Inscribed on a stone tablet let into
the front of the building we read:

    Theis Almes Howses are
    the gieft of Mr Iohn Wynne
    cittezen of London Latelye
    Deceased who hath left a
    Yeareley stipend to everey
    poore of either howses to
    the Worldes End. September
    Anno Domini 1621.

And may the stipend be regularly paid to the poor “to the Worldes End,”
according to the donor’s directions, and not be devoted to other and
very different purposes, as sometimes has been the case elsewhere with
similar gifts, under the specious pretext of changed times!

Judging from the date affixed to these alms-houses, they were standing
just as they are now, looking doubtless a little newer, when Charles I.
passed a prisoner through here in the charge of General Fairfax; on
which occasion, according to long-cherished local tradition, the vicar
offered him for his refreshment some wine in the Communion cup. That
must have been an eventful day for Baldock.

Not only the alms-houses, but the other buildings round about, of red
brick, with the pearly-gray bloom of age over them, were very pleasant
to look upon. Perhaps their colour never was so crude and assertive as
that of the modern red brick with which we construct our cheap misnamed
Queen Anne villas--which have nothing of the Queen Anne about them,--a
red that stares at you, and is of one uniform, inartistic hue--a hue
quite on a par as regards unsightliness with the chilly, eye-displeasing
blue of Welsh slates. Since the railways have come and cheapened
communication, Welsh slates have spread over all the land like an ugly
curse; you find them everywhere--they have displaced the cheerful ruddy
tiles that so well suit the gentle gloom of the English climate and the
soft green of its landscapes, they have ousted the pleasant gray stone
slab and homely

[Sidenote: _THE MAGIC OF FAME_]

thatch. Welsh slates are bad enough, but, alas! there is even a lower
depth of ugliness. Corrugated iron is still more hideous, and this I
sadly note is coming into use as a roofing material; it is cheap and
effectual, absolutely waterproof--and such an eyesore! How is it that
things are so seldom cheap and beautiful--truly there are exceptions,
but these only prove the rule--are these two qualities sworn enemies? If
only the Welsh slates were of the delicious greeny-gray tint of the more
expensive Cumberland ones, it would be a different matter. It is an
astonishing thing how even good architects are neglectful of colour in
their buildings, and what comparatively small thought they devote to the
beauty of the roof.

Many people possibly would see nothing to admire or commend in Baldock;
it would probably impress the average individual as being a sleepy,
old-fashioned sort of place, deadly dull, and wholly devoid of interest;
so doubtless the same individual would consider Stratford-on-Avon, had
not Shakespeare been born there, and had not that magic accident of his
birth caused the town to be visited and written about by famous authors,
its beauties sought out and belauded by guide-book compilers, its quaint
old-world bits of architecture to be sketched and painted and
photographed endlessly, so that we all know how to admire it. Now, so
far as I am aware, no very notable person has been born at Baldock, so
the tourist comes not thither; and with nothing eventful to chronicle
about the town, nothing to commend it but its quiet naturalness and
picturesqueness, which it shares with many another ancient English
market-town, Baldock will have to sleep on unfamed, for its quiet charms
are not of the nature to assert themselves or appeal to everybody. There
is a beauty that requires searching after, which, not being pronounced,
the eye needs training to see. Still, I think that even the most
unobservant traveller, on passing through the quiet little town, must
note its pleasing look of mellowness and naturalness, the latter of
which qualities is attractively refreshing in this age of artificiality.

Out of Baldock our road rose gradually on an embankment, possibly one of
the later improvements made by the old Turnpike Trust, when there was
actually a feeling amongst the coach proprietors that they might
successfully compete with the coming iron horse--an idea that took some
time to dispel, for even as late as October 1837 I find, from an old
coaching poster so dated, that the “Red Rover” from London to Manchester
was re-established as a commercial speculation. How long this
“well-appointed coach” ran after its establishment I cannot say.

From the top of the rise we obtained a good view of Baldock, that, with
the woods around, the silvery sheen of water below, and the soft sky
above, made a very pretty picture; so pretty, indeed, that the
temptation to sketch it was not to be resisted. But later on we had to
harden our hearts and pass by many a picturesque spot without using our
pencil, otherwise we should have made more sketches than

[Sidenote: _OLD CUSTOMS_]

miles per hour, and our journey would not have been finished by
Christmas time. To the artist eye, accustomed to look out for beauty,
rural England is one succession of pictures!

We now struck upon a purely farming country, where the fields were large
and divided by hedgerows into a sort of glorified and many-tinted
chessboard--not a happy comparison certainly, but “‘twill serve.” In
some of the fields we saw gleaners, women and children, at work amongst
the stubble,--I had nearly written at play, so unlike work did their
occupation seem, for the children were romping, and the women were
laughing and chatting, and it did our hearts good to hear the merry
prattle and cheerful voices. Would all labour were as lightsome!

We had an idea that the gleaner, like the almost forgotten flail, was a
thing of the past, but were delighted to find that the good old custom,
honoured by over two thousand years of observance, sung of by poets and
beloved by painters, has not wholly disappeared, and that some of the
romance of the fields is left to us. The flail, that used to knock out
the corn on the old barn floors with much thumping, I have not met with
for years long past, but I believe, from what I hear, that it still is
used in a few remote places. The reaping machine has driven the slow
sickle into a few odd corners of the land, where the ground is rough and
the crops are small, though sometimes it has momentarily reappeared
elsewhere when the corn has been badly laid. The mowing machine also has
to a great extent, though less universally, taken the place of the
scythe. And with these changes has come a change over the sounds of the
countryside. For the occasional whetting of the scythe we have the
continuous rattle of the machine; and the puffing and peculiar humming
of the steam-thresher, heard from afar, has taken the place of the
muffled thumping of the flail on the soft straw, only to be heard a
short way off.

The fact cannot be blinked that husbandry has lost not a little of its
past-time picturesque and poetic aspect. Perhaps no one realises this
more than the artist; for though it may be done, and has been done, yet
for all it is not easy to put romance into commonplace machinery--that
means poetry without the gathered glamour of the associations of long
years. Machinery has at last but too successfully invaded the farm, and
the agriculturist is being slowly converted into a sort of produce
manufacturer. Now it is difficult to grow sentimental over machinery!
The time may even come when the readers of Crabbe, Gray, Thomson, and
other poets of the countryside will need the aid of a commentator to
understand their terms aright. Only the other day a literary man asked
me to describe a flail, as he was not quite sure what it was! Possibly
some of us hardly realise how rapidly “the old order gives place to the
new,” till unexpectedly the fact is brought to mind by some such
question. I am thankful to say that I have heard nothing of the “Silo”
of late, so that I trust that ensilage, that was to do such great things
for the English farmers, is a

[Sidenote: _THE POETRY OF TOIL_]

failure, and never likely to usurp the place of the pleasant hay-field
and fragrant haystacks. We simply cannot afford to improve the merry
haymaking away--it is the very poetry of toil.

Driving on, we presently passed the fortieth milestone from London, just
beyond which a post by the roadside informed us that we had entered
Bedfordshire. Crossing this imaginary line brought back to mind a story
we had been told concerning it by an antiquarian friend, as
follows:--Just upon the boundaries of Bedfordshire and Hertfordshire
formerly stood a rambling old farm-house; the living-room of this was
long and low, and on the centre beam that went across the ceiling (such
as may still be found in ancient buildings) was inscribed this legend:
“If you are cold, go to Hertfordshire”--which apparently inhospitable
invitation was explained by the fact of the peculiar situation of the
room, one-half being in the one county and one-half in the other, and it
chanced that the fireplace was at the Hertfordshire end!

Soon after the change of counties, at the foot of a long gradual
descent, we found ourselves in the hamlet of Astwick, where by the
wayside we espied a primitive but picturesque little inn boasting the
title of “The Greyhound,” with a pump and horse-trough at one side, as
frequently represented in old pictures and prints of ancient
hostelries--a trough of the kind in which Mr. Weller the elder so
ignominiously doused the head of the unfortunate Mr. Stiggins. Besides
the trough there was a tiny garden of colourful flowers in front of the
inn by way of refinement, and above the weather-tinted roof uprose a
fine stack of clustering chimneys. The chance light and shade effect of
the moment suited well the unpretending but pleasant bit of old-time
architecture, so we proceeded to photograph it, not, however, before the
landlord had divined our intention, and had placed himself in a
prominent position, so that he might be included in the picture. A
worthy man the landlord proved to be, as we found out in after
conversation with him, and we promised to send him a copy of the
photograph; but “the best-laid schemes o’ mice an’” amateur
photographers “gang aft agley,” for it happened we had forgotten to
change the plate, and so took the old inn right on the top of a previous
photograph of another inn, and the photographic mixture was not
favourable to clearness or an artistic result! The negative when
developed showed two signboards on separate posts in different positions
and at different angles, two roofs, one just over the other, a hopeless
jumble of windows, and two stacks of chimneys occupying, the same place
at the same time, in spite of the well-known axiom that no two things
can do so. The Astwick landlord truly was there, but converted into a
veritable ghost, for through his body you could plainly trace the
doorway of the first inn! Certainly the result amused sundry of our
friends, but then the photograph--photographs, I mean,--were not taken
for that purpose, and friends are so easily amused at one’s failings!
This reminds me that a famous artist once told me, speaking of
experiments in painting, that he preferred a magnificent failure to a
poor success; but our failure was not magnificent.

[Sidenote: _“HEART OF OAK”_]

Having, as we fondly imagined, secured a fine photograph, we entered
into a conversation with the landlord, which resulted, as we hoped, in
his inviting us to “take a glance” inside, where he pointed out the
floors to us, which he said were all of “heart of oak,” and further
remarked, “You don’t find that in modern buildings of this sort”--a
statement in which we heartily concurred. He also showed us the
staircase, likewise of oak. He had not been in the house long, we
learnt, and when he bought the place “it was all going to ruin”; but he
put it in good order. “Lots of people come to sketch and photograph the
old inn, and some of the people who come patronise us for refreshment.”
So it would seem that, after all, the picturesque has a commercial
value--a fact we were delighted to note. Who would go even a mile to
sketch a modern-built public-house? for the primitive inn was really
that, though its picturesque and thought-out design suggested a more
dignified purpose.




CHAPTER IV

     Biggleswade--“Instituted” or “intruded”!--A poetical will--The
     river Ivel--A day to be remembered--The art of
     seeing--Misquotations--The striving after beauty--Stories in
     stone--An ancient muniment chest--An angler’s haunt--The town
     bridge--The pronunciation of names--St. Neots.


Some three miles or so beyond Astwick we reached high ground, from which
we had extensive views to the right over miles of fields and undulating
greenery. Shortly after this we dropped down into the drowsy old town of
Biggleswade; at least it struck us as being a very drowsy sort of place
when we were there, but doubtless it wakes up to a little life and
movement once a week, on market-days. Even the Biggleswade dogs looked
sleepily inclined, curled up under the shelter of various doorways,
hardly indeed condescending to give us a glance as we passed by; whilst
the nature of dogs generally is to make the arrival of a stranger in
their parts an excuse to rush out and bark at him, good-naturedly or the
reverse as the mood moves them. A dog seems to reason with himself,
“Barking is the chief pleasure of life; here comes a stranger, let’s
have a bark!”

Here we drove into the ancient and rambling stable-yard of an old inn
near the market-place, and

[Sidenote: _A SUGGESTIVE WORD_]

handed our horses over to the good keeping of the ostler; and whilst our
lunch was being prepared we wandered out to have a look round the town,
but found nothing to specially interest us, so all else failing, we
sought the church. Even here we did not discover much to reward us,
though the open and carved timber roof of the south aisle was good, with
its ornamental bosses and corbels formed of sculptured figures of
angels, the whole being more or less decayed and the worse for age. On
the woodwork are some slight remains of decorative painting.

Placed against the wall of the church we observed a board with the
following heading--“The Vicars of Biggleswade,” followed by a list of
names of the said vicars, “from 1276 to the present time, with the dates
of their Institution.” Glancing down the long list of names, after each
we noticed the word “instituted,” followed by the date thereof; but when
we came to that of William Raulius, we noted instead of the usual
“instituted,” the suggestive word and date “intruded 1658” was inserted!

Of this church my _Paterson’s Roads_, that does duty as a sufficient
guide-book for us, remarks: “This substantial ancient edifice was built
in the year 1230; it was formerly collegiate, and still contains several
of the stalls. The parishioners have all an equal right to any of the
seats, for which privilege, however, they are constrained to repair or
rebuild the fabric when requisite.” Under the heading of “Biggleswade,”
the same excellent road-companion also remarks of Sutton Park, near by,
on the road to Potton, “It is traditionally stated that this seat
formerly belonged to John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, who gave it to
Roger Burgoyne, ancestor of the present proprietor, by the following
laconic grant:--

    I, John of Gaunt,
    Do give and do grant,
    Unto Roger Burgoyne,
    And the heirs of his loin,
    Both Sutton and Potton,
    Until the world’s rotten.

There is also a moated site in the park, still known by the name of John
of Gaunt’s Castle.”

Leaving Biggleswade, we crossed the river Ivel, but until the crossing
thereof we had no idea that there was a river of such a name in
England,--a driving tour is certainly helpful to a better and more
minute knowledge of the geography of one’s own land. Then we entered
upon a far-reaching level stretch of country, with a great expanse of
sunny sky above, and the silvery sheen of stilly waters showing below in
slothful river and clear but stagnant dyke. We could trace our road for
miles ahead in curving lines lessening to the low horizon, inclining
first this way and then that, now disappearing, to reappear again along
way off. The eye--the artistic eye at any rate--rejoices in such a
succession of sinuous curves, as much as it abhors the dictatorial and
monotonous straight line; it likes to be led by gentle and slow degrees
into the heart of the landscape, and away beyond into the infinity of
space where the vague distance vanishes into the sky. Possibly the
muscles of the eye more readily

[Sidenote: _A PLEASANT LAND_]

adapt themselves to such easy and gradual transition from spot to spot
than to the harsher insistence of a straight line. Nature herself hardly
ever indulges in the latter; man may make it, but she, in time, on every
opportunity, mars it gloriously.

On either hand, as we drove on, stretched a level land of tilled fields
and verdant meadows, the many colours of the crops and the varied greens
of the pastures forming a gigantic mosaic. To the right of us rose some
rounded fir-crowned hills, if hills be the right term, for only perhaps
in a flat country would such modest elevations be dignified with the
title of hills. These, to employ a familiar painter’s expression, “told”
deeply blue--with all the beauty of ultramarine and all the depth of
indigo.

It was an open breezy prospect, delightful to gaze upon, though there
was nothing exciting or grand about it save the great distances and the
wide over-arching sky; but it had the charm of wonderful colouring, and
was full of lightness and brightness that was most inspiriting; full of
cheery movement too, where the wild wind made rhythmic waves of the long
grasses and unreaped fields of corn, and rustled the leaves and bent the
topmost branches of the saplings before its gentle blasts, or where it
rippled the gliding waters of the winding river and silvery streams,
causing them to glance and sparkle in the flooding sunshine. All Nature
seemed buoyant with an exuberant vitality upon that almost perfect
afternoon, and the gladness of the hour entered into our very souls and
made us exultant accordingly! It was a day to call fondly back to mind
when pent up in London during the darksome and dreary November days,
half asphyxiated with the smoke and sulphur laden atmosphere; then the
very remembrance of such a time of golden sunshine and fresh and
fragrant breezes is of untold refreshment.

Some people might have deemed that prospect, composed chiefly of flat
fields, sluggish waters, and scattered trees, uninteresting and
unbeautiful, with nothing to commend it, still less to rave about; but
there is such a thing as the art of seeing, which art reveals, to those
who cultivate it, beauty in the most unexpected places. The charm of
form and colour is often a noteworthy factor that makes for beauty in a
prospect that is devoid of the picturesque and the “sweetly pretty.” The
best training in the art of seeing and discovering beauty that I know is
to make a series of sketches from Nature, in colour--water-colour for
preference, as being clearer of tint and easier applied. Take, for
instance, a bit of an old stone wall, or, better still, a
weather-stained boulder on some moor, outline it as well as you
can--never mind the drawing at first, it is the colour you must look
for--copy these tint for tint, hue for hue, as faithfully as you can.
Before starting you may imagine that the rugged boulder is simply gray
all over, lighter on the side where the sun shines, and darker in the
shadows, and that is all; but as you try to represent its surface you
will soon discover, if you only look hard and carefully enough, that
what you at first deemed to be merely a mass of gray is composed of a
myriad changeful colours:

[Sidenote: _A NEW SENSE_]

there are sure to be the silver, and the gold, and perchance the red, of
clinging lichen (glorious colours these); then there are the greens of
mosses, and countless weather-stains here and there, all to be given;
then the rock itself, you will perceive as the eye gets more accustomed
to its novel task, is composed of countless tints, changing with almost
every change of surface, and where the boulder lies half in shadow you
will perceive a sort of blue-gray bloom--look very hard for this; then
the blackest shadows, you will note, are rich and deep, and look quite
colourful beside any single tint you may mix in the hope of representing
them. The more you study that boulder, the more colour you will see in
it; and if all this unexpected colour exists in one simple rock, to
leave the charms of varying form unconsidered, what must there not exist
on the whole wide moor? Look for yourself and see. After your eye has
had its first lesson in the art of seeing and searching out the
beautiful, it will naturally, unconsciously almost, begin to look for it
everywhere--and expect it! I fear I have perhaps written this in too
didactical a manner, but I find it difficult to express myself clearly
otherwise, and must plead this as my excuse for a failing I find it so
hard to endure in others.

It was sketching from Nature that first taught me to look for and find
beauties in my everyday surroundings that before I had never even
imagined to exist. This art of seeing came to me like a new sense--it
was a revelation, and it has ever since afforded me so much positive and
lasting pleasure, that I can truly say it has materially increased the
happiness of my life. Surely if “a man who can make two blades of grass
grow where one grew before is a benefactor to his race,” to add, however
slightly, to the happiness of life is to be a benefactor too, humble
though the addition may be.

Now, after this over-long digression, let us once more resume the even
tenor of our tour. I had nearly written the even tenor of our way, and
placed the words between inverted commas, so familiar does the saying
sound; but I find on reference that Gray really wrote “the noiseless
tenor of their way,” which is not exactly the same thing, and it is as
well to be correct in small details as in great. It is astonishing to me
how often familiar quotations go wrong in the quoting; indeed, it is
rather the exception to find them rightly given. I have only just to-day
come across two instances of this whilst glancing over a magazine
article. First I note that Milton’s “fresh woods and pastures new” is
rendered, as it mostly is, “fresh fields and pastures new”; then
Nathaniel Lee’s “when Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war” is
misquoted, as usual, “when Greek meets Greek,” etc., quite losing the
point that when the ancient--not the modern!--Greeks were joined
together they were a doughty foe. But now I am wandering again right off
the road!

Driving on, we presently crossed the little river Ivel by a gray stone
bridge, beneath which the stream ran clear and brightly blue. Across the
bridge we found ourselves in the straggling village

[Sidenote: _A SUDDEN CONTRAST_]

of Girtford. This began well with pretty cottages roofed with homely
thatch; then passing a wayside public-house with the uncommon title of
“The Easy Chair” (a sign that we do not remember to have met with
before), the village ended badly, in a picturesque point of view, with a
row of uninteresting cottages of the modern, square-box type, shelters
for man rather than habitations--commonplace, alas! and unsightly. The
sudden contrast from the old to the new was an object-lesson in ancient
beauty and modern ugliness.

The progressive nineteenth century, by the mean and hideous structures
it has erected over all the pleasant land, has done much towards the
spoliation of English scenery. It has done great things, truly. It has
created railways, it has raised palaces, mansions, huge hotels, monster
warehouses, tall towers, and gigantic wheels of iron; but it has
forgotten the way of rearing so simple and pleasing a thing as a
home-like farmstead; it cannot even build a cottage grandly. Yet how
well our ancestors knew how to do these. Still, the wanderer across
country now and then sees signs of better things, a promise of a return
to more picturesque conditions, and this sometimes in the most
out-of-the-way and unexpected quarters. Thus, during our drive, have we
chanced upon a quaint and freshly-painted inn sign done in a rough but
true artistic spirit, supported by wrought-iron work of recent date,
worthy of the medieval craftsman; and in quiet market-towns and remote
villages have our eyes occasionally been delighted by bits of thoughtful
architecture, the outcome of to-day, with their gable fronts, mullioned
windows, and pleasant porches, in reverent imitation of what is best in
the old. Besides these, sundry restorations of ancient buildings
backwards, not forwards, point to a striving again for beauty.

An excellent and most delightful example of the revival of picturesque
village architecture we discovered the other year when driving through
Leigh, near Tunbridge, where the modern cottages are all pictures,
charming to look upon with their half-timber framework, thatched roofs
of the true Devon type, many gables, big chimneys, and quaint
porches--all modern, but imbued with the spirit and poetry of the past.
It is as though a medieval architect had been at work on them. The
simple cottages are nobly designed; there is no starving of material in
the attempt to make the utmost of everything; they are all humble
abodes, yet dignified; a millionaire might live in one and not be
ashamed; and withal they are essentially English. If they have a
failing, it is perhaps that they look a trifle artificial--too
suggestive of the model village or of stage scenery; but this I take it
arises mainly because we are not accustomed in these commonplace days to
find poetry out of books and paintings, so that the coming suddenly upon
it realised in bricks and mortar strikes one for the moment as strange
and unreal.

After another stretch of wide, open country, flushed with air and
suffused with sunshine, the hamlet of Tempsford was reached. By the
roadside

[Illustration: A WAYSIDE INN.]

[Sidenote: _AN ANCIENT CHEST_]

here stood the ancient fane, gray and dusky with years. Its door was
unfastened, so we stepped inside. Our hoary churches are stories in
stone, to those who can read them; though not always is the reading
easy, or the story complete. The first thing on entering that attracted
our attention was an unusually fine medieval muniment chest, its age
uncertain, but without doubt centuries old. It had evidently been cut
out of the solid trunk of a tree (presumably of an oak). The chest is
now much worm-eaten, and is bound round with many broad iron bands, and
further secured by five locks. They had great faith in big locks in
those days--locks with twisted keyholes, though to the modern mind they
look easy enough to pick. The problem that presented itself to us was,
seeing that about two-thirds of the wood was interlaced with these metal
bands, why was not the chest at the start made wholly of iron? In this
case the bands promise to outlast the worm-eaten and decaying wood they
enclose, though in some old chests of a similar nature the iron has
rusted more than the wood has perished, possibly owing to atmospheric
conditions, for dampness would probably destroy the iron quicker than
the wood, and dryness would reverse these conditions.

At the west end of the north aisle we observed a curious triangular
window, and in the pavement at the base of the tower we found two flat
tombstones a little apart. One is inscribed in Latin to the memory of
“Knightley Chetwode,” and the other in English to his wife, who, we
learnt, was noted for her “piety towards God, fidelity to the King and
the Protestant succession”; though why the virtues of the husband
should be set forth in Latin and those of his wife in English I do not
quite see.

On the wall of the tower we also noted the following inscription cut in
a stone slab, the exact import of which was not very clear to us;
possibly it related to some rebuilding:--

    Wi[=ll] Savnderson Gē
    and Thō[=m] Staplo Yēō
    Overseers of this New
    Work & patentyes of his
    Maiesties Letters
    Patent Granted for
    the same May xii--1621.

The lettering of this was delightfully full of character, and pleasing
to look upon simply for the forms of the letters--a something quite
apart from the mechanical precision with which the present-day engravers
render their works, possibly because they cannot do otherwise; it does
not require much thought to be simply precise!

Just beyond Tempsford our road came close to the side of the
quiet-flowing Ouse, and there, where for a space the road and river ran
together, stood an inviting and picturesque inn, whose sign was that of
“The Anchor.” An ideal angler’s haunt it seemed to us as we passed by,
with an old punt and boats close inshore, and shady trees overhanging
the gleaming stream. There was a look of homely repose about the spot
quite incommunicable in words, a beauty about the fresh greens and
silvery grays of the wind-stirred foliage to be felt, not described.

[Sidenote: _THE WINDING OUSE_]

And how deep and rich were the luscious reflections where the woods
doubled themselves in the glassy flood! How peace-bestowing it all was!
We would, for the moment, that we were simple fishermen, and that this
were our journey’s end! Great was the temptation to stop and laze a
while, but we resisted it and drove on. We feared, perhaps, though we
did not confess this to ourselves, that too close an inspection might
rob us of our pleasant impressions. We had an ideal, and wished to keep
it! There is an art in knowing how much to leave unseen!

On now we drove, through a land of broad and luxuriant meadows, cool and
tree-shaded, till we reached Eaton Socon, a pretty village with a small
green and a fine large church. Within the sacred edifice we discovered
little of interest, only portions of a rather good timber roof, a carved
oak screen of fair workmanship, and the remains of a squint blocked up.
If there were anything else noteworthy we managed very successfully to
miss it.

Then a short stretch of road brought us once more to the blue winding
Ouse; at least it looked very blue that day. This we crossed on an
ancient, time-worn bridge, that had great recessed angles at the sides
wherein pedestrians might retreat and watch the long track of the
glimmering river, and dream day-dreams, should they be so minded, safely
out of the way of road traffic, and undisturbed by the passing and
repassing of those afoot. On the other side of the river we found
ourselves _at once_ in the wide market-place of St. Neots. At the
bridge the country ended and the town began; there were no straggling
suburbs to traverse. Close at hand, right in the market-place, we caught
sight of an inviting hostelry, the “Cross Keys” to wit. The first glance
at the old inn was enough to decide us in its favour. Relying on the
instinct begotten of long years of road travel, we had no hesitation in
directly driving under the archway thereof, where we alighted in the
courtyard, and sought and obtained, just what we then mostly needed,
comfortable quarters for the night. In the case of the selection of an
hostelry, we had learnt to judge by outside appearances, in spite of the
proverb to the contrary effect. Even in proverbs there are exceptions to
the rule!

I should imagine, from the glance we had on passing over, that the
bridge at St. Neots forms a sort of outdoor club for a number of the
townsfolk. There is something magnetic about a river that equally
attracts both the young and the old; it is bright and open, it has the
charm of movement, and there is nearly always life of some kind to be
found by the waterside. Thither, too, at times the fisherman, or at any
rate the fisher-urchin, comes; and what a fascination there is for most
minds in watching an angler pursuing his sport, even though in vain! I
have frequently observed that in country towns where there is a widish
river and a convenient bridge over it, there on that bridge do certain
of the citizens regularly congregate at evening-time, when the day’s
work is done, for a chat, a quiet smoke, and “a breath of air before
turning in.” The town

[Sidenote: _THE CHARM OF MYSTERY_]

bridge has become quite an institution in some places!

As we went out to do a little shopping, we were amused and instructed to
hear the different ways that the natives pronounced the name of their
town. One would have imagined that there was only one way of doing this,
but we discovered three: the first party we conversed with distinctly
called it St. Notes, a second as emphatically declared it to be St.
Nots, and still another would have it St. Neets, whilst we as strangers
had innocently pronounced it as spelt; and now I do not feel at all
certain as to which is the prevailing local appellation, or if there may
still be another variety.

Our bedroom window faced the old market-square--a large, open, and
picturesque space, pleasant to look upon; and at the window we sat for a
time watching the life of the place and the odd characters coming and
going. It was all as entertaining to us as a scene in a play, and a good
deal more so than some, for there was no indifferent acting in our
players, and no false drawing in the background--the perspective was
perfect! And, as we watched, the light in the west gradually faded away,
whilst the moon rose slowly and shone down, large and solemn, through
the haze that gathered around when the dusk descended. The gentle
radiance of the moonlight made the mist luminous with a mellow light--a
light that lent the magic charm of mystery to the prospect. The houses,
grouped irregularly round the square, were indistinctly revealed, all
their harsher features being softened down; then one after another
lights gleamed forth from their many-paned windows, with a warm yellow
cheerfulness in marked contrast with the cold silvery moonshine without.
The mist-damped roadway was reflective, and repeated vaguely the yellow
gleams above, and imparted to the scene quite a Turneresque effect.
Above the low-roofed houses, dimly discernible, rose the tall tower of
the stately parish church, so grand a church that it has earned the
epithet of “the cathedral of Huntingdon.” It was a poetic vision, very
beautiful and bewitching to look upon, we thought; but, after all, much
of the beauty in a prospect lies in the imaginative qualities of the
beholder: we may all see the same things, yet we do not see them in the
same manner!




CHAPTER V

     The charm of small towns--The Ouse--A pleasant land--Buckden
     Palace--A joke in stone--The birthplace of Samuel Pepys--Buried
     treasure--Huntingdon--An old-time interior--A famous coaching
     inn--St. Ives--A church steeple blown down!--A quaint and ancient
     bridge--A riverside ramble--Cowper’s country--Two narrow escapes.


One of the special charms of small towns like St. Neots is that you can
readily walk out of them in any direction right into the country; and
what a boon it must be to the inhabitants of such places to have the
real country all around them, easily accessible even to children, and
this without having to take to cab or railway! So next morning, after
starting early, as was our wont, we soon found ourselves amongst the
green fields and trees again. It was a bright sunshiny day, with a
fleecy sky above and a brisk breeze below--the very weather for driving.

Just outside St. Neots we came to a gateway on the road with the gate
closed and barring our path; there was, however, a man at hand to open
it, and a very prominent notice-board facing us inscribed--“The man who
attends to the common-gate is not paid any wage, and is dependent upon
the free gifts of the public.” This notice struck us as being somewhat
novel, practically converting the gate into a toll-gate, for the moral
obligation to tip was thereby made manifest--and why should gates be
allowed on the main highways?

After this we crossed a long open common, at the farther end of which we
passed through still another gate, that also needed another tip for the
opening thereof; then we came to our old friend the Ouse again, which we
crossed on a bridge by the side of a mill; just before reaching this we
noticed that there was a raised causeway approach to the bridge for
pedestrians above and alongside of the road, suggestive of winter
flooding. The causeway also suggested an excellent motive for a picture
with suitable figures on it, to be entitled “When the river is in
flood.” It would form quite a Leaderesque subject, taken at a time when
the day is waning, and wan yellow lights are in the sky, and a yellow
sheen lies on the stream.

The Ouse here is very pretty, clear-watered, and gentle-gliding, fringed
with reedy banks and overhung by leafy trees, the whole being rich in
colour and broad in effect. Indeed, the Ouse is a very pleasant, lazy
stream, and a most sketchable one too. The discovery of the
picturesqueness of this river--of which more anon--was one of the
unexpected good things of our journey.

Now our road led us, with many windings, through a pleasant land of
parks and park-like meadows, wherein grew great branching elms, beneath
whose grateful shelter the meek-eyed cattle gathered complacently. It
was an essentially peaceful,

[Sidenote: _A PICTURESQUE PILE_]

homelike country, green and slumberous, but wanting wide views; a
closed-in landscape, however beautiful of itself, becomes a trifle
monotonous in time--you can even have a monotony of beauty--the eye
loves to rake the countryside, to get a peep, now and then, of the blue
far-away, or of the gray outline of a distant hill.

The first village on our way was Buckden, and here, being unprovided
with a guide-book, we had a delightful surprise, for as we entered the
place we caught a glimpse of the broken and time-worn towers of a large,
rambling, and picturesque pile of buildings, some portions ruined,
others apparently maintained and occupied. The structure was principally
of brick, but time-toned into a warmish gray with age. What could it be?
Manifestly, from its extent, it was a place of considerable importance.
Such surprises are happily to be expected in such a storied land as
England, wherein you cannot travel far without setting your eyes upon
some ancient history. In spite of the size and beauty of the
many-towered building, when we asked ourselves what it could be, we had
sadly to acknowledge that even the name of Buckden was unfamiliar to us!
So we consulted our ancient and faithful _Paterson_ to see what he might
say, and running our finger down the line of road, as given in the
“London to Carlisle” route, we read after the name of the village,
“Bishop of Lincoln’s Palace.” A note by the side, giving some details
thereof, says: “This venerable pile is chiefly constructed of brick, and
partly surrounded by a moat; it comprises two quadrangular courts, with
a square tower and entrance gateway, and contains several spacious
apartments. Large sums of money have been expended by different prelates
on this fabric, particularly by Bishops Williams and Sanderson, the
former in the reign of James I. and the latter in that of Charles II.
The situation of the edifice is extremely pleasant. The manor was
granted to the see of Lincoln in the time of Henry I.... Several of the
prelates belonging to this see have been interred in the parish church.”

We gathered from this that probably the church would be fine and
interesting, so we alighted and made our way thither. Facing the quiet
God’s acre--I would like to write God’s garden, but it was hardly
that--stood one of the square, semi-fortified gateways of the palace,
embattled on the top, and having four octagonal flanking towers at its
sides; in the enclosed walls below were mullioned windows, the stonework
of which was perfect, but the glass was gone; at the foot of the gateway
commanding the approach were cross arrow-slits, presumably placed there
for ornament--a survival of past forms that, even when the tower was
raised, had long outlived their uses, so strong is the strength of
tradition. Thus to-day I know instances where the modern architect of
renown has introduced buttresses when the wall is strong enough without;
peaceful church towers are likewise embattled like a feudal castle keep,
and gargoyles introduced thereon, where, did the latter only carry out
their offices, they would pour the rain-water down in streams upon the
heads of the

[Sidenote: _GARGOYLES_]

congregation when entering or leaving the building! So, their true
functions gone, are obsolete forms retained for the sake of their
picturesqueness, which seems wrong art to me; rather should we attempt
to build for the needs of the present, and make those needs
ornamental--to construct soundly, and be content to adorn such
construction. The architects of old, I trow, did not introduce gargoyles
for the sake of ornament; they made them to throw the rain from off
their roofs and walls, purely for utility; then they proceeded to carve
and make them presentable, and converted an ugly excrescence into a
thing of beauty or quaintness, as the spirit moved them, but either way
they were interesting. Now that we have invented rain-water
pipes--which, let it be frankly owned, answer the purpose far better
than the old-fashioned gargoyles--we should seek, in the spirit of the
past, to make beautiful or quaint the headings of the same. Here is a
sadly neglected and legitimate opportunity to introduce the much-needed
decoration that _does_ decorate, and thus add an interest to our houses
they so much need. Instead of this, we are too often content with “stuck
on” ornaments, which do not ornament, serve no need, and merely profit
the builder’s pocket.

But to return to the old Buckden Palace gateway. Though externally the
brick and stone work is in fair condition, the structure is but a
skeleton; however, this fact adds to its picturesqueness, and with the
better-preserved towers beyond, it helps to form a very pleasing group.
When we were there the ruined tower was in the possession of a flock of
noisy starlings--birds that strangely appear to prefer buildings to
trees, and who made themselves much at home in the ruins.

Then we took a glance within the church, where several Bishops of
Lincoln lie buried close to their palatial home. Fortunate beings those
ancient bishops--to make the best of both worlds, and to ensure so many
earthly good things on their way to heaven; to be the servant of Him who
had not where to lay His head, and yet to sit on a throne, live in a
palace, and enjoy a princely income; nevertheless, to talk of losing all
for Christ, who said, “My kingdom is not of this world”! Strangely
inconsistent is the creed of Christianity with the history of the
Church. “Love your enemies” was the command of the Master. “Torture and
burn them” was the order of the medieval Church--and is the servant
greater than the Master?

Buckden church, though interesting, was hardly so much so as might have
been expected; its open timber roof, however, was very fine, and was
adorned with a series of sculptured angels that manifestly had once been
coloured, but now had a faded look, and faded angels seem hardly
appropriate; moreover, not one of the number had his (or her?) wings
perfect; some had only one wing, and that broken, others were in a still
worse plight, having no wings at all! But why should angels have wings?
Is it that neither scholar nor artist can get beyond anthropomorphism?
Wings are hardly spiritual appendages. The medieval craftsman, in
representing angels so provided, must surely

[Sidenote: _A CARVED JOKE_]

have reasoned with himself somewhat in this fashion: Angels fly; now all
birds and creatures that fly have wings, therefore angels must have
wings; and so he added them to the human form, to represent a spirit.
The medieval craftsman could invent demons--veritable monsters who
breathed and struggled in wood and stone, and looked good-naturedly
diabolical with leering, wicked eyes, yet hardly dreadful--monsters that
appeared quite possible in some other and most undesirable world--these
were pure creations, but his angels were simply winged humanity, neither
original nor interesting, for their even placid features, if without
guile, were equally without character.

The roof was supported by stone corbels, that in turn supported carved
oak figures of mitred bishops, from which sprang the great rafters with
the angels on. One of these corbels was most cleverly carved so as to
represent a roundish head with a hand held over one eye in a very
roguish way, and tears running down the cheek from the other; the
expression of the features, one half merry and the other grieved, was
marvellous, especially the mouth, part jocund and part miserable; it was
an odd conceit that compelled one to laugh, the comicality was
irresistible. Were I to worship in that church, I am afraid that the
most serious sermon would hardly affect me with that droll face peering
grinningly down--one half at least--and looking so knowing! A carved
joke! That is art in truth that converts the amorphous stone into a
thing of life, with the expressions of grief and joy. Compare such
living work with the lumpy, inexpressive, and meaningless stone-carving
that disfigures so many of our modern churches built “to the glory of
God” cheaply and by contract, and how great and distressing the
contrast!

As we drove out of Buckden, we noticed what a fine coaching inn it
boasted once, namely the “George and Dragon.” The original extent of the
whole building, in spite of alterations, can still be easily traced; its
former size and importance may be gathered from the fact that there are
thirteen windows in one long line on its front, besides the great
archway in the centre, that is such a prominent feature in most
old-fashioned hostelries.

A couple of miles or so beyond Buckden stands the pretty village of
Brampton, and here we made a short halt, as, besides its
picturesqueness, Brampton had a further interest for us in being the
birthplace of that celebrated Diarist and old-time road-traveller the
worthy Mr. Samuel Pepys, who was born here on 23rd February 1632, though
the event is not to be found in the parish register, for the excellent
reason that “these records do not commence until the year 1654.” I find
in the preface to the new edition of _Lord Braybrooke’s Diary of Samuel
Pepys_, edited by H. B. Wheatley, it is stated: “Samuel Knight, D.D.,
author of the _Life of Colet_, who was a connection of the family
(having married Hannah Pepys, daughter of Talbot Pepys of Impington),
says positively that it was at Brampton” Pepys was born. The father and
mother of the ever-entertaining Diarist lived and died at Brampton, and
were buried there.

[Sidenote: _A PRIMITIVE PROCEEDING_]

The number of birthplaces of famous Englishmen that we came accidentally
upon during the course of our journey was a notable feature thereof.
Besides the instance just mentioned, there was Cromwell’s at Huntingdon,
Jean Ingelow’s at Boston, Sir John Franklin’s at Spilsby, Lord
Tennyson’s at Somersby, Sir Isaac Newton’s at Woolsthorpe, with others
of lesser note, the last four being all in Lincolnshire.

But to return to Brampton. Pepys makes frequent mention of this place in
his notes, and gives some very amusing and interesting experiences of
one of his visits there under the date of the 10th and 11th of October
1667, when he came to search for and to recover his buried treasure. It
appears, after the Dutch victory in the Thames, and the rumours that
they intended to make a descent upon London, Pepys, with many others,
became alarmed about the safety of his property, so he sent a quantity
of gold coins in bags down to his father’s home at Brampton, with
instructions that they should be secretly buried in the garden for
security! A primitive proceeding truly, giving a curious insight of the
state of the times: one would have imagined that the money would really
have been safer hidden in London than risked on the road, where
robberies were not infrequent.

When all fear of the Dutch invasion had vanished, Pepys journeyed down
to Brampton to get back his own, which caused him to moralise upon the
obvious thus--“How painful it is sometimes to keep money, as well as to
get it.” Having recovered his money, or nearly all of it, he relates
how about ten o’clock he took coach back to London. “My gold I put into
a basket, and set under one of the seats; and so my work every quarter
of an hour was to look to see whether all was well; and I did ride in
great fear all day.” And small wonder, for if any of the “gentlemen of
the road” had “got wind” of Mr. Pepys’s exploit, it is more than
probable that they would have eased him of his treasure; even without
such knowledge, there was just a possibility of a misadventure at their
hands. The only pleasant part of that memorable journey must have been
the ending thereof. I wonder whether Mr. Pepys ever heard of the
tradition, which has found its way as historic fact into some of our
school-books, that “in Saxon times the highways were so secure that a
man might walk safely the whole length and breadth of the land, with a
bag of gold in his hand.” The “in Saxon times,” however, calls to my
mind the inevitable beginning of the good old-fashioned fairy stories,
“Once upon a time.” Both terms are rather suggestive of romancing; at
least they put back dates to a safely distant period!

On the church tower at Brampton, which stands close to the roadside, is
the date 1635 plainly carved in stone, and to-day as sharp and clear as
when first chiselled over two eventful centuries ago. From Brampton we
drove to Huntingdon. About midway between those places we passed, on a
triangular bit of green, a gray stone obelisk surmounted by a ball. At
first we imagined that we had come across

[Sidenote: _COACHING INNS_]

another wayside monument, but it disappointed us, proving to be merely a
glorified sign-post with hands pointing out the various directions, and
the various distances given below. Then leaving, to our left, the
historic home of Hinchinbrook, where the Protector spent some of his
boyish days with his uncle and godfather Sir Oliver Cromwell, we soon
entered the pleasant town of Huntingdon. Here we sought out the
“George,” one of the famous trio of coaching houses on the road that,
with its namesake at Stamford and the “Angel” at Grantham, disputed the
premier place for comfort, good living, and high charges. At either of
these well-patronised hostelries our forefathers were sure of excellent
fare and rare old port such as they delighted in: it was the boast of
some of the hosts, in the prime of the coaching age, that they could set
down before their guests better wine than could be found on His
Majesty’s table. If this were a fiction, it were a pleasant fiction; and
tired travellers, as they sipped their old bottled port, after feasting
well, doubtless deemed their landlord’s boast no idle one.

Unfortunately the “George” at Huntingdon, unlike its two rivals
aforementioned, has externally been rebuilt, not, alas! on the
picturesque old lines, but in the square, commonplace fashion of plain
walls pierced with oblong holes for windows--a fashion so familiar to us
all. But upon driving beneath the archway and entering the courtyard, a
pleasant surprise awaited us. We found a picture in building presented
to our admiring gaze. It was one of those delightful experiences that
are so delightful because so unexpected: there is a wonderfully added
charm about pleasures that are unanticipated. This is why it is so
enjoyable to travel through a fresh country with all before you unknown
and therefore pregnant with possibilities; the mind is thus kept ever in
an agreeable state of expectancy, wondering what each new bend in the
road may reveal; and what a special interest there lies in the little
discoveries that one makes for oneself! Could a guide-book be produced
giving particulars of all one would see on a tour, so that one would
always know exactly what to expect everywhere, I make bold to say that a
tour undertaken with such a perfect companion would not be worth the
taking!

But to get back to the “George” at Huntingdon. There, straight in front
of us, stood a goodly portion of the ancient inn, unlike the exterior,
happily unmodernised--a fact for all lovers of the beautiful to be
deeply grateful for. This bit of building retained its ancient gallery,
reached by an outside stairway (so familiar in old prints and drawings
of such inns), and in the great tiled roof above, set all by itself in a
projecting gable, was the hotel clock, that doubtless erst did duty to
show the time to a generation of road-travellers in the days before the
despotic reign of the steam-horse, when corn and hay, not coal and coke,
sustained the motive power.

This unchanged corner of a famous old coaching hostelry spoke plainly of
the picturesque past. It was not a painter’s dream, it was a reality! It
suggested bits from _Pickwick_, and sundry scenes from novels of the
out-of-date romantic school.

[Illustration: AN OLD COACHING INN: COURTYARD OF THE GEORGE,
HUNTINGDON.]

[Sidenote: _AN INN TO OUR LIKING_]

Indeed, it must formerly have been quite a Pickwickian inn, and in our
mind’s eye we conjured up a picture in which the immortal Sam Weller was
the chief character, standing in the courtyard below flirting with the
neat be-ribboned maids above as they leaned over the open gallery, when
for a moment business was slack in the yard, and the chamber bells had a
brief respite from ringing. The building and courtyard had a genuine
old-world flavour about them that was very charming, and to add to its
interest and attractiveness the building was not decayed or ruined, as
so many of the kind are, but was well preserved and maintained, so that
it must have looked to us much the same as it did in the days of our
ancestors--peace be to their ashes!

At the “George” we were received by a motherly landlady with a welcoming
smile, that made us feel more like an expected guest arriving than an
utter stranger seeking food and shelter for a time; this ready greeting
in the good old-fashioned style promptly recalled to memory Shenstone’s
famous and often-quoted lines as to the warmness of the welcome a
traveller may find at an inn.

So much to our liking were both landlady and hostelry, that we forthwith
determined to stop the night beneath the sign of the “George” at
Huntingdon, though it was only then mid-day. “I really must make a
sketch of your pretty courtyard!” I exclaimed to the landlady, after
returning her greeting with thanks, for we were always most particular
to repay courtesy with courtesy. “Oh! do wait till to-morrow,” she
begged, “as you are staying on, for I have ordered some flowers and
plants to put round about the yard. They will be here this afternoon,
and the place will look so much nicer with them.” So smilingly we
consented to wait till to-morrow, when the flowers and shrubs would be
in evidence. It was something to feel that so charming a relic of the
past was thus prized and cared for. Picturesqueness begets
picturesqueness; as a pretty house calls for tasteful things about it,
so a picturesque bit of old building like this mutely begs for flowers
and plants to complete its pleasantness.

As we had the whole afternoon on our hands, we determined to do a little
local exploring. The only point to be considered was, in which direction
we should go. To settle this our map was consulted, and from it we
learnt that the ancient town of St. Ives was only, by rough scale
measurement, some four to five miles off; moreover, we noted that our
newly-made friend the Ouse flowed between the two towns with many a bend
that suggested pleasant wanderings; and as we were informed that there
was a footpath by the riverside, the wanderings were feasible. So we
made up our minds to get to St. Ives somehow, by railway if needs be and
a train served, and at our leisure to follow the winding stream afoot
back to Huntingdon. We felt a strong desire to become better acquainted
with the Ouse, as the few peeps we had already caught of its quiet
beauties much impressed us; still, we had a haunting dread of being
disappointed with a wider view, so often have

[Sidenote: _A SLEEPY TOWN_]

hopes raised in a similar manner proved illusive. Then we remembered
Wordsworth’s lines:

    Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
      It must, or we shall rue it!
    We have a vision of our own;
      Ah! why should we undo it!

Well, we had “a vision of our own” of what the Ouse would be
like--“should we undo it?” We had asked ourselves almost a similar
question before of one picturesque spot by the same river’s side near
Tempsford, as may be remembered, but that was only of one special nook,
not of a five miles’ stretch of country!

We found St. Ives to be a drowsy, old-fashioned town, delightfully
unprogressive, and little given to so-called modern improvements--a
place where the feverish rush of life seemed stayed. It struck us as
being quaint rather than picturesque, though its curious old bridge,
hoary with antiquity, certainly deserved both these epithets, and bits
of its buildings, here and there, proved eminently sketchable. Whilst we
were drawing an odd gable which took our fancy, an elderly stranger
approached and began to converse with us--a frequent incident under such
circumstances, so much so that we had become quite accustomed to it. The
stranger in this case turned out trumps, in that he was somewhat of a
character, possessing a fund of entertaining information about local
subjects that interested us. He was a quiet-spoken and pleasant-mannered
man, rather shabbily dressed, as though he paid little heed to the cut
of his coat or external appearances, but his linen was scrupulously
clean. We felt puzzled what position in the varied economy of life to
assign to him, nor did any chance remarks of his help us in this
respect. But, after all, who or what he might be was no business of
ours. “Have you seen the old bridge yet?” was one of his first
questions. Then he went on to say, “You must not miss that, it is the
queerest bridge in England; it was constructed by the old monks
originally; there’s a curious building right in the middle of it, on the
site of an ancient chapel in which prayers used to be offered up for the
safety of travellers starting on a journey, and thanks were given for
their safe arrival. When the chapel and priests were done away with, a
lighthouse was put up in its place to help the river traffic, so I’ve
been told; then the lighthouse got burnt down; and afterwards, when the
people found that they could get along without either chapel or
lighthouse, the place was converted into a dwelling-house, and that’s
what it is now. There’s not many folk, I fancy, in these times, who have
their home in the middle of a bridge! It is a wonderful old building,
you must not miss it on any account,” and we promised that we would not.
“Then there’s our church,” he went on; “the spire of it has been blown
down twice, though you might not think it on such a day as this; but it
does blow terribly hard here at times: the wind comes up the river and
sweeps down upon us in the winter, now and then, hard enough to take you
off your legs. I’ve been blown down myself by it when crossing

[Sidenote: _A STRANGE STORY_]

the bridge. But I was going to tell you a strange bit of history
connected with our church, which I believe is quite unique. Many years
ago--I don’t just now remember the exact date, but it was over two
hundred years back--a Dr. Wilde left a sum of money in his will, the
interest on which was to go to buy Bibles to be tossed for by dice on
the Communion table by six boys and six girls of the parish, and the
tossing still takes place every year according to the will, only now it
is done on a table in the vestry instead of on the Communion table. Now
that’s a bit of curious history, is it not?” and we confessed that it
was, and duly jotted it all down in our note-book just as told to us.
When we had finished, our informant further added, “I have heard that an
account of the dice-tossing was given in one of the London papers, only
by some mistake it was said to have taken place at St. Ives in Cornwall,
and some one from there wrote to the paper and said that there was not a
word of truth in the story.” So the conversation went on. The only other
item of special interest that I can remember now, is that he remarked
that perhaps we did not know the origin of the name of Huntingdon. We
confessed our ignorance on the subject, and he forthwith kindly
enlightened us, though I cannot, of course, in any way vouch for the
authenticity of a statement made by an utter stranger in the street of a
country town! Still, I give it for what it may be worth, and because the
derivation seems not only plausible but probable. According to our
unknown authority, then, in Saxon times the country around Huntingdon
was one vast forest given over to the chase, and the place was then
called Hunting-ton--or Hunting-town, in modern English--and from this to
Huntingdon is an easy transition.

Curiously enough, just after writing this record of a chance
conversation, I came upon a paragraph in the _Standard_ giving an
account of the St. Ives dice-tossing, which runs as follows, and bears
out the story as told to us:--“The ancient custom of raffling for Bibles
in the parish church of St. Ives took place yesterday. The vicar
directed the proceedings, and twelve children cast dice for the six
Bibles awarded. The custom dates from 1675, and is in accordance with
the will of Dr. Wilde, who left £50 to provide a fund for the purpose.
It was expended on what is still called ‘Bible Orchard,’ with the rent
of which the books are bought, and a small sum paid to the vicar for
preaching a special sermon.”

The bridge at St. Ives we found to be a most interesting and picturesque
structure, having a tall building over the centre pier, and in addition
a low and smaller building over another pier at the farther end, that
looked as though it might have been originally a toll-house. Four out of
the six arches of the bridge were pointed, and thereby suggested the
ecclesiastical architect. The remaining two were rounded, doubtless
reconstructed so at a later period. At the base of the house that stood
in the middle of the bridge was a little balcony with iron railings
round it, to which access was given by a door, so that the tenant of the
house could sit outside and have a quiet smoke whilst amusing himself
watching the craft going up and down stream. The bridges at
Bradford-on-Avon in Wiltshire and at Wakefield in Yorkshire have their
old chapels, and one of the bridges at Monmouth has its ancient
fortified gateway thereon; but I do not know of any bridge in England
besides that of St. Ives that has an inhabited house upon it.

[Sidenote: A HOUSE ON A BRIDGE.]

Crossing the river on the quaint, old, and timeworn bridge (of which an
engraving is given at the head of the first chapter), we soon found
ourselves once again in the greenful country; and walking over a meadow
that seemed to us a good mile long, we reached the pleasant Ouse,
shimmering like a broad band of silver in the soft sunshine, and gliding
slowly and smoothly along its sinuous course between flower-decked
fields and reed-grown banks, with over-arching trees ever and again that
gave deliciously cool reflections in the stream below.

After the hoary bridge and ancient time-dimmed town, how fresh and
bright looked the fair open country, so full of exuberant vitality! How
gray and aged the dusky town appeared from our distant standpoint--the
wear and tear of centuries was upon it; by contrast how ever young and
unchangeable the country seemed. The one so mutable, the other so
immutable!

As we wandered on, we suddenly found ourselves in a most picturesque
nook, where the river made a bend and a bay, and was overshadowed by
trees--a peace-bestowing spot it was, and in the shallow edge of the
stream, beneath the sheltering trees, cattle were lazily resting and
cooling themselves. Here too we discovered a rambling old mill, the
subdued droning of whose great wheel mingled with the plashing of
falling water and the murmuring sur--sur--suring of the wind-stirred
foliage--sounds that were just enough to make us realise the stillness
and tranquilness of the spot. One does not always comprehend the
quietude of Nature; we travel too much in company to do this. But
besides the old mill, that so pleased us that we forthwith made a sketch
of it, there was close at hand an ancient lock, gray and green, and just
sufficiently tumble-down to be perfectly picturesque. Look which way we
would, we looked upon a picture. Perhaps the one that pleased us best
was the view of the great gabled mill as seen from the top of the lock,
with the big leafy trees outstretching behind it, and the weedy and worn
towing-path winding in front.

[Sidenote: OVER FEN AND WOLD.]

As we stood by the lock sketching the old mill--called Knight’s mill, we
learnt from the lock-keeper--a barge came along drawn by a gray horse,
for there is traffic on the Ouse, but only just enough to give it a
little needful life and interest. As the barge proceeded on its journey,
we observed that, at a point where the tow-path apparently ended, the
horse went boldly down into the water and walked on in the river close
by the bank where it was shallow; it struck us from this that it would
hardly do to rely solely upon the tow-path for exploring purposes.

Not far from the mill and lock is Hemingford Grey, a pretty village
whose fine old church stands picturesquely by the side of the river. The
church appeared formerly to have possessed a fine spire, but now only a
stump of it remains, and each angle of this is adorned with a small
stone ball that gives a curious look to the building. Just against the
churchyard, that is merely divided from the river by a low wall, is a
little landing-place for boats; so we imagined that some of the country
folk are rowed or punted to church on Sundays--quite a romantic and an
agreeable proceeding in the summer time.

[Sidenote: TO CHURCH BY BOAT.]

Here we saw a man on the bank fishing with a bamboo rod, contentedly
catching nothing--a lesson in patience and perseverance. The rod he
declared to be an ideal one to angle with, being so light and strong;
nevertheless, we observed that, in spite of this advantage, he had
caught no fish. Perchance they were shy or “off their feed” that day;
they always seem to be so, I know, when I go a-fishing. Then we asked
him about the church spire--had it never been completed, or had it been
struck by lightning, or had it been pulled down as unsafe?

“You’ve not guessed right,” he replied; “it was blown down”! Now this
struck us as extraordinary. Church spires do not generally get blown
down, yet that very day we had come upon two, not very far apart, that
had so suffered. Either this part of England must be very windy, or the
spires must have been very badly built! It was a strange and puzzling
fact.

Cowper stayed some time at Hemingford Grey, and wrote a few of his
poems there; and as it seems to me a most charming spot, I am perplexed
to understand how he could write of the scenery around Huntingdon, of
which it forms part, thus:--“My lot is cast in a country where we have
neither woods nor commons, nor pleasant prospects--all flat and insipid;
in the summer adorned with willows, and in the winter covered with a
flood.” Surely Cowper must have been in an extra melancholy mood at the
time, else why does he condemn a country thus, that he praises for its
beauties in verse? Are there two standards of beauty, one for poetry and
one for prose?

So we rambled on by the cheerful riverside, over the greenest of
meadows, past ancient villages and picturesque cottages, past
water-mills, and with occasional peeps, by way of change, of busy
windmills inland, past primitive locks and shallow fords, till we
reached Godmanchester. Our verdict, given after our enjoyable tramp, is
that the Ouse from St. Ives to Huntingdon is a most picturesque and
paintable stream, simply abounding in picture-making material. Quite as
good “stuff” (to use artists’ slang) may be found on the Ouse as on the
Thames, with the added charm of freshness, for the beauties of the
Thames have been so painted and photographed, to say nothing of being
engraved, that they are familiar to all, and over-familiarity is apt to
beget indifference!

So we rambled leisurely along by the river side, over meadows spangled
with daisies and buttercups, those lowly but bright and lovely flowers

[Sidenote: _A NARROW ESCAPE_]

of the sward, by ancient villages and unpretending cottage homes, that
pleased because they were so unpretending, by droning water-mills and
whirling windmills, by picturesquely neglected locks, by shallow fords,
and by countless beauty-bits such as artists love, till we reached
Godmanchester--a quiet little town, remarkable neither for beauty nor
for ugliness, that stands just over the Ouse from Huntingdon. Here we
crossed first some low-lying ground, and then the river by a raised
causeway and a long stone bridge, darkly gray from age; on the wall in
the centre of this bridge is a stone slab inscribed:--

                            Robertus Cooke
                           Ex Aquis emersus
                         Hoc viatoribus sacrum
                              D.D. 1637.

It appears that, in the year above stated, this Dr. Robert Cooke, whilst
crossing the causeway, then in bad repair, was washed off his feet and
nearly drowned, the river running strongly past in heavy flood at the
time; and in gratitude for his narrow escape he left in his will a
certain sum of money, the interest on which was to be expended in
keeping the causeway and bridge in perfect repair for ever.

This reminds me of the historic fact that no less a personage than
Oliver Cromwell, when a schoolboy, at this spot and under similar
circumstances, also nearly lost his life, but was saved from drowning by
the timely aid of a Huntingdon clergyman who was likewise crossing at
the time. When, in after years, Cromwell, no longer unknown to fame,
chanced to be passing through the streets of Huntingdon at the head of
his Ironsides, he happened to notice the very clergyman watching the
procession, and, smiling, reminded him of the incident, asking him if he
remembered it. “I do well,” replied the clergyman, who bore no love
towards the Puritans, “and I wish to God I had let you drown rather than
have saved your life to use it to fight against your king.” To which
Cromwell sternly retorted, “It was God’s will, you merely acted as His
servant to perform His wishes. Be pleased, sir, to remember that.”




CHAPTER VI

     Cromwell’s birthplace--Records of the past--Early photographs--A
     breezy day--Home-brewed ale--Americans on English
     scenery--Alconbury Hill--The plains of Cambridgeshire--The silence
     of Nature--Stilton--A decayed coaching town--A medieval hostelry--A
     big sign-board--Old-world traditions--Miles from anywhere.


Returning to our comfortable hostelry after our pleasant wanderings, we
felt just sufficiently tired to enjoy the luxury of taking our ease
therein, but “hungry as hunters” from our long tramp, therefore we
rejoiced in the fact that the worthy landlady had not forgotten her
guests, for we found quite a sumptuous repast awaiting us, worthy of the
ancient traditions of the house, though we on our part, it must be
confessed, were not equally worthy of the traditions of our ancestors in
the wine side of the feast; indeed, our healthy out-of-door life gave us
a positive distaste for wine of any kind. We always infinitely preferred
a homely draught of good old English ale, than which, for thirsty
mortals, a better drink has yet to be invented!

It may be remembered--though we only gleaned the fact whilst in
Huntingdon--that Oliver Cromwell was born in that town, and was educated
at the grammar school there. The house in which the Protector “first
saw the light of day” has, alas! been pulled down, but an ancient
drawing thereof represents it as being a comfortable and substantial
two-storied building, apparently of stone, having Tudor mullioned
windows and three projecting dormers in the roof. At the commencement of
the century the house was standing, and was shown as one of the sights
of the place. If only photography had been invented earlier, what
interesting and faithful records might have been preserved for us of
such old historic places which are now no more! As it is, we have to be
content with ancient drawings or prints of bygone England, and these not
always skilfully done, nor probably always correct in detail.
Furthermore, artists, then as now, perhaps more then than now, romanced
a little at times, and therefore were not so faithful to facts as they
might have been; as witness many of Turner’s poems in paint, which,
however beautiful as pictures, are by no means invariably true
representations of the places and scenes they profess to portray.
Indeed, there is a story told of Turner, who, when sketching from Nature
upon one occasion, deliberately drew a distant town on the opposite side
of the river to which it really stood, because, as he explained, “It
came better so”!

An unknown and very kind friend some time ago most courteously sent me a
number of prints from paper negatives taken in the early days of
photography by the Fox-Talbot process, and amongst these chanced to be
an excellent view of the ancient hostelry of the “George” at Norton St.
Philips in Somerset (a wonderful old inn, by the way, which I

[Sidenote: _PHOTOGRAPHIC RECORDS_]

have already very fully described in a former work[1]). When I received
the prints, I had only recently both carefully drawn and photographed
the quaint old-time hostelry, and I found that, even in the
comparatively short period that had elapsed since the Fox-Talbot
negatives were made, certain marked changes had taken place in the
building; so there can be no doubt as to the value and interest of such
recording photographs, for the lens has no bias, but faithfully
reproduces what is before it, neither adding to nor taking away
therefrom for the sake of effect. Now that, fortunately, both the
amateur and professional photographer are in evidence everywhere, future
generations will happily possess true, if not always artistic,
representations of places and historic spots as they really were at the
time of being taken; and in the case of matters of antiquarian or
archæological interest, we can well pardon the probable loss of
picturesqueness for the sake of accuracy. Fancy, if we could only have
to-day photographs preserved for us showing, for example, Fountains
Abbey in the full glory of its Gothic prime, or of other notable
buildings of the medieval age, how we should prize them! If we only had
a few faithful photographs of Elizabethan England to compare with
Victorian England, what a precious possession they would be! What would
not one give for a “snap-shot” of the Invincible(?) Armada arrogantly
sailing up the English Channel in stately procession, or of the
innumerable pageants of bygone times with all their wealth of
picturesque paraphernalia!

[1] _Through Ten English Counties._

We were up early in the morning, and before breakfast had made a sketch
of the quaint and ancient courtyard of the “George,” an engraving of
which is given in the last chapter. By a little after nine the dog-cart,
packed for travelling, was at the side door of our inn, and bidding
good-bye to the landlady--who in the good old-fashioned manner had come
to see us off and wish us a pleasant journey--we took our departure, and
were soon once more in the open country. Overnight we had, as our wont,
consulted our map as to our next day’s stage, and determined that we
would drive to Stamford, just twenty-five and three-quarter miles from
Huntingdon, according to our faithful _Paterson_.

Again we had delightful weather: a fresh, invigorating breeze was
blowing from the west; overhead was a deep blue sky, from which the sun
shone warmly, but not too warmly, down. The air was clear and sweet, and
the country all around full of brightness, colour, and movement, for the
wind swayed the trees in its path, and made golden waves as it swept
over the unreaped corn-fields, and green ones as it passed over the long
grasses in the meadows; it rippled the waters on ponds and rivers, and
whirled the sails of the windmills round at a merry pace; the brisk
breeze gave animation to the landscape, and seemed to imbue it with
actual life. Huntingdonshire, fortunately for the traveller therein,
possesses no large manufacturing towns, Huntingdon, St. Neots, and St.
Ives being of the compact, clean, homely order--more agricultural
centres than commercial ones. Therefore the atmosphere of the county is
not smoke-laden or oppressed with grayness, but pure, bright, and
buoyant, with the scent of the real country about it--an atmosphere that
makes one suddenly realise that there is a pleasure in merely breathing!

[Sidenote: _HOME-BREWED ALE_]

About two miles out we came to a little roadside inn having the sign of
the “Three Horse-shoes” displayed in front. Why three horse-shoes? Four,
one would imagine, would be the proper number. Here we observed a notice
that the thirsty wayfarer could indulge in “Home-brewed Ale,” rather a
rare article in these days of tied houses, when large brewing firms buy
up all the “publics” they can, so as to ensure the sale of their beer
thereto, and no other. Now, it may be pure fancy on my part, for fancy
counts for much, but in my opinion there is a special flavour and
pleasing character about _good_ home-brewed ale never to be found in
that coming from the big commercial breweries.

A little farther on our road brought us to Little Stukeley, a rather
picturesque village. Here, to the left of the way, stood a primitive old
inn, with its sign let into the top of a projecting chimney-stack, an
uncommon and curious place for a sign. In fact there were two signs, one
above the other; the top one was of square stone carved in low relief to
represent a swan with a chain round its body. The carving was all
painted white (except the chain, which was black), and bore the initials
in one corner of C. D. E., with the date 1676. Just below this, on a
separate and oblong tablet, painted a leaden colour, was the carved
representation of a fish--intended, we learnt, for a salmon, as the inn
was called the “Swan and Salmon.” We felt duly grateful for the lettered
information, otherwise we might in our ignorance have imagined the sign
to be the “Swan and Big Pike”!

Now we passed through a pretty but apparently sparsely-populated
country; indeed, it is strange how little the presence of man is
revealed in some portions of rural England, though the signs of his
labour are everywhere in evidence. Upon one occasion, when driving a
prominent American citizen, a guest of mine, across country (in order
that he might behold it from another point of view than that afforded by
a railway carriage, the general mode of seeing strange countries
nowadays), I took the opportunity of asking him what he was most struck
with in the English landscape. “Its uninhabited look,” was the prompt
reply; “and that is the very last thing I expected. I see great parks
here and there, and now and then I get a peep of a lordly palace
standing in stately solitude therein, as though it needs must keep as
far removed from the plebeian outer world as possible; but the homes of
the people (I mean those who are neither very rich nor very poor), where
do they hide themselves? From all I have seen to-day, had I not known
the facts, I should have imagined it was Old England that was the new
and thinly-populated land, and not my American State. With you, I guess,
it is a civilised feudalism that still prevails: the palace surrounded
by its park takes the place of the ancient castle surrounded by its
moat--the outer forms have changed, the spirit still remains. The
English country strikes me as a land of magnificent mansions and humble
cottages.”

[Sidenote: _AS OTHERS SEE US!_]

I was so struck by this statement of views, that on my return home I
looked up the works of some American authors who have written about
England, to gather what they might say on the subject, and I found that
John Burroughs, in an appreciative essay on English scenery in his
_Winter Sunshine_, writes his impressions of it thus:--“To American eyes
the country seems quite uninhabited, there are so few dwellings and so
few people. Such a landscape at home would be dotted all over with
thrifty farmhouses, each with its group of painted outbuildings, and
along every road and highway would be seen the well-to-do turnouts of
the independent freeholders. But in England the dwellings of the poor
people, the farmers, are so humble and inconspicuous, and are really so
far apart, and the halls and the country-seats of the aristocracy are so
hidden in the midst of vast estates, that the landscape seems almost
deserted, and it is not till you see the towns and great cities that you
can understand where so vast a population keeps itself.” It is
interesting sometimes “to see ourselves as others see us,” and never was
I more entertained than by hearing the outspoken opinions upon England
and the English of a notable Japanese official whom I met in California,
and who confided to me his ideas and views of things British, imagining
I was an American citizen all the time, and I did not undeceive him.

On our map we saw Alconbury Hill marked right on our road of to-day,
also we found it noted in our _Paterson_, therefore we expected to have
some stiff collar-work, for we reasoned to ourselves, when an Ordnance
map makes prominent mention of a hill it means climbing for us; so we
were surprised to find the hill only a gentle, though rather long, rise,
with a descent on the other side to correspond--trotting-ground every
inch of the way. From the top of the modest elevation, however, we had
an extensive prospect opening out before us over the flat, far-reaching
plains of Cambridgeshire--a little world of green meadows and tilled
fields, varied by many-tinted woods, enlivened by the gleam of still
water and the silvery thread of winding stream--a vast panorama
stretching away farther than our eyes could reach, for the far-off
horizon was lost in a faint blue haze that seemed to wed the sky to the
land. There is a certain fascination in looking over such a breadth of
earth and sky to be felt rather than described; it affords one an idea
of the majesty of space!

The country, as we drove on, became very lovely but very lonely; we had
the road all to ourselves for miles, not even the ubiquitous cyclist did
we see, and the fields on either hand appeared strangely deserted; a
profound peace brooded over all, so that even the tramping of our
horses’ feet and the crunching of our wheels on the hard road seemed
preternaturally loud--and we realised what a noise-producing creature
man is! I knew a Londoner, who lived within sound of the perpetual roar
of street traffic, after spending a night in a remote

[Sidenote: _TRANQUILLITY OR DULNESS_]

country house, actually complain of the painful stillness there,
averring that he could not sleep for it! So silent is Nature when at
rest, and so unaccustomed is the average town-dweller to its quietude.
To Charles Lamb the tranquillity of the country was “intolerable
dulness”; to others it is infinite rest. Lamb wrote: “Let not the lying
poets be believed, who entice men from the cheerful streets.... Let no
native Londoner imagine that health and rest, innocent occupation,
interchange of converse sweet, and recreative study, can make the
country anything better than altogether odious and detestable. A garden
was the primitive prison, till man, with Promethean felicity and
boldness, luckily sinned himself out of it”!

Driving on, we observed a large old house to our right close to the
roadway; this we imagined from appearances had formerly been a fine old
coaching hostelry, but now it is divided down the centre, one half doing
duty as a farmstead, the other half still being a house of
entertainment, that proclaims itself with the sign of the “Crown and
Woolpack.” I find that an inn so named is marked at this very spot on a
last-century travelling map I possess, so that it was presumably then of
some importance. To-day it struck us that the farmhouse looked more
prosperous than the inn.

As we proceeded, the country all around had a mellow, home-like look,
smiling and humanised with long abiding and the tireless toil of
generations of hardy workers: it was a delightful compound of green
fields, leafy trees, tangled hedgerows, murmuring streams, with winding
roads and inviting footpaths leading everywhere. Here and there, too, we
caught pleasant peeps of the gray gable-ends of ancient homes amidst the
woods, the rest being drowned in foliage. The scenery was thoroughly,
intensely English. Had you by some magic been suddenly transplanted
there from some distant region of the world, you would have had no
hesitation in saying that you were in England, for no other scenery in
the world is quite the same as what we looked upon. Here again let an
American give his opinion. I find Mark Twain, in his _More Tramps
Abroad_, thus writes: “After all, in the matter of certain physical
patent rights, there is only one England. Now that I have sampled the
globe, I am not in doubt. There is the beauty of Switzerland, and it is
repeated in the glaciers and snowy ranges of many parts of the earth;
there is the beauty of the fiord, and it is repeated in New Zealand and
Alaska; there is the beauty of Hawaii, and it is repeated in ten
thousand islands of the Southern Seas; there is the beauty of the
prairie and the plain, and it is repeated here and there in the earth.
Each of these is worshipful, each is perfect in its way, yet holds no
monopoly of its beauty; but that beauty which is England is alone--it
has no duplicate. It is made up of very simple details--just grass, and
trees, and shrubs, and roads, and hedges, and gardens, and houses, and
churches, and castles, and here and there a ruin, and over it all a
mellow dreamland of history. But its beauty is incomparable, and all its
own.”

It is not always the grandest scenery that affords

[Sidenote: _ENGLISH SCENERY_]

the most lasting pleasure, rather is it the quiet beauty that lies in
our rural everyday landscape that holds the sweetest remembrance.
Grandeur may excite our admiration, call forth our most expressive
adjectives, but it is the lovable that dwells nearest the heart, whose
memory is the closest treasured in after years; and it is this very
quality of lovableness that the English scenery flows over with that so
charms and binds one’s affections. English scenery does not challenge
attention by any _tour de force_; it simply allures you by its sweet
smile and home-like look. As Thackeray says, “The charming, friendly
English landscape! Is there any in the world like it?... It looks so
kind, it seems to shake hands with you as you pass through it.”

About twelve miles from Huntingdon stands the little decayed town of
Stilton--a famous place in the old coaching days, when the traffic here
on the Great North Road is said never to have ceased for five minutes,
day or night, the whole year round. But now Stilton has shrunk to little
more than a large village. Thanks to the railway, its prosperity is a
thing of the past, depending as it did almost wholly upon its inns,
which in turn depended upon the road traffic. As we drove into the
drowsy old town (I use the term in courtesy), that seems to have gone to
sleep never to waken more, our eyes were delighted by the vision of a
genuine, little-altered, medieval hostelry--of which very few remain in
the land. It was a picture rather than a place--a dream of old-world
architecture; and this is what we saw before us: a long, low, gabled
building, with bent, uneven roof and shapely stacks of chimneys, with
the usual low archway in, or about, the centre, giving access to the
stable-yard, and a grand old sign-board, supported by great brackets of
scrolled iron-work, and further upheld by a post in the roadway (there
is a curious old inn, the “Chequers,” at Tunbridge, with its sign
supported in a similar manner). The fine sign-board of the inn at
Stilton bears the representation of a huge bell, and forms quite a
feature in the building; the front of the latter has a delightful
mellow, gray tone--a sort of bloom that only age can give, the priceless
dower of centuries.

So charmed were we with this quaint and picturesque specimen of a
past-time hostelry of the pre-coaching era, that we involuntarily pulled
up to gaze upon it at our leisure, half afraid lest it should prove an
illusion, and like a dream vanish into nothingness; but no, it was a
happy reality, and not the delusion of a moment--it was “a something
more than fiction.” Not often in these prosaic days does the driving
tourist come upon a romance in stone like this, for romance was written
large over all its time-toned walls--walls that since the hostelry was
first raised, over three storied centuries ago, must have looked upon
many strange sights and eventful doings. Then the highway to the North
was in parts but little better than a track. The “gentlemen of the road”
made travelling a doubtful delight, full of excitement, and more
dangerous than tiger-hunting now is. Little wonder, therefore, that our
medieval ancestors commended their souls to God before starting out on
a journey; even the early coaching bills took the precaution of stating
that “the journey would be performed, God permitting.” The modern
railway time-table compilers are not so particular!

[Sidenote: _“THE BELL” AT STILTON_]

Driving under the ancient archway, we entered the stable-yard of the
“Bell,” and found that, in spite of the changed times and forsaken look
of the place, we could put our horses up there, as well as obtain a meal
for ourselves. Whereupon we ordered the best that the house could
provide “for man and beast.” Having settled this necessary detail, we at
once went outside and began work on a sketch of the ancient hostelry (an
engraving which will be found with this chapter). So engrossed did we
become with our pleasant task, that we forgot all about our meal, so the
landlord had to come out to remind us about it. We excused ourselves by
remarking that we could eat and drink any day, but not always had we the
opportunity of sketching such a picturesque bit of building. The
landlord simply smiled, and gazed at us inquiringly. What was passing in
his mind I cannot say, but he remarked that our chops were getting cold.
Possibly he wondered at any one preferring to stand outside in the
roadway drawing an old inn, instead of sitting within it feasting.
Moreover, he reminded us that he had some excellent ale. This was a
sudden descent from the poetic to the practical, but the practical
prevailed, for we had to confess to ourselves that we were hungry, and
thirsty too; and as my wife pertinently remarked, “The chops won’t
wait, and the inn will; it has waited several hundreds of years where it
is, and you can finish your sketch after lunch.” The argument was
unanswerable, so we stepped within, and did ample justice to the repast
that mine host had provided. I am inclined to think that the sketch did
not suffer for the interruption, for a hungry man is apt to draw
hastily, be he ever so enthusiastic about his work. Our repast finished
and our drawing done, we sought out the landlord--a stout,
jovial-looking personage; may his shadow never grow less!--for a chat,
in the hope of gleaning thereby some information or traditions about the
old place, and were not wholly disappointed.

It appeared that mine host had been there thirty-two years, and even in
his recollection much of the stabling and a portion of the building in
the rear also had gone to decay, and consequently was pulled down. He
seemed proud of his ancient inn, but especially proud of the original
sign-board, which, being of copper, for lightness, had not decayed,
neither had it warped. “Now, I’ll wager you cannot guess the height of
it within a foot,” he exclaimed, looking up at the swinging board. We
thought we could, it seemed an easy matter; so we guessed and failed! We
conjectured five feet. “Ah!” exclaimed the landlord, “I knew you would
guess wrong--everybody does. Why, it’s six feet and two and
three-quarter inches high! I’ve been up on a ladder and measured it
myself. It does look big when you’re up close to it. There used to be
lots of bets about it, I’ve heard, in the old coaching days, much to the
profit of the drivers; for you see they knew the height and

[Illustration: A MEDIEVAL HOSTELRY: THE BELL INN, STILTON.]

[Sidenote: _A FINE INN SIGN_]

their passengers didn’t. It was said to be the finest sign on the road.
More than once, to settle a wager, the coach waited whilst the board was
measured. It’s a sad pity, but the scrolled iron-work is corroding away,
besides getting bent out of place here and there from the heat of the
sun, but I expect it will last my time for all that. The owner would
like to restore the old inn, only there is so little road custom now, it
would not pay to do so.” “But how about the cyclists,” we queried; “do
you not obtain a good deal of custom from them?” “Well, not very much,
sir. Somehow, they seem mostly to pass along without stopping. Now and
then one or two may stop just for a glass of ale, but the majority of
them simply slow down a bit as they pass by, and exclaim, ‘What a funny
old place!’ or a similar remark; but a few odd glasses of ale and a lot
of remarks don’t go far towards paying rent. You see, there’s nothing to
come here for, this isn’t a tourist country. Now, were we only near to a
watering-place, we should get a lot of folks a-driving over to see the
old house, refreshing themselves, and baiting their horses. Then there
would be money in it.” For myself, I am selfishly glad that the “Bell”
at Stilton is not near any fashionable resort, otherwise there would be
a great chance of its picturesqeness being improved away. As it is, it
may still, with a little repairing now and then, last for centuries, to
delight the eye of antiquaries and artists yet unborn--a bit of history
in stone of the never-returning past.

Then the landlord asked us to go into his garden at the back, and there
presented us with one of his roses. “It’s a rare kind,” he said; “they
call it a new rose. A gentleman living near here gave a big price for a
stock one like it; but when he showed me his purchase I told him that I
had just the same kind in my garden, and it had been there for seven
years; and he would not believe me till he came and saw for himself.
There’s what you call a spa spring in the garden. In olden times it used
to be considered a cure for some complaints, but it seems forgotten now.
It is the only spring in the place; all the other water has to be got
from wells.”

The name of Stilton is, of course, a familiar household word, as the
little town gave its name to the now famous cheese. I find my copy of
_Paterson_ has the following note about the place:--“Stilton has long
been celebrated for the excellence of its cheese, which not unfrequently
has been called the English Parmesan. It is asserted that this article
was first made by a Mrs. Paulet of Wymondham, near Melton Mowbray, in
Leicestershire, who supplied the celebrated Cooper Thornhill, who kept
the Bell Inn in this village, with this new manufacture, which he often
sold for 2s. 6d. per lb., and hence it is said to have received its name
from the place of sale. This Thornhill was a famous rider, and is
recorded to have won the cup at Kimbolton with a mare that he
accidentally took on the course after a journey of twelve miles.”
Another performance of this sporting worthy was to ride to London and
back for a wager within twelve hours. I find by my road-book the
distance for the double journey to be 150 miles, so that he must have
ridden over twelve miles an hour; and a good day’s work in truth!

[Sidenote: _INN-LORE_]

Most of the landlords of the old coaching hostelries were sporting men,
and wonderful stories are told of their doings, stories that probably,
like most wines, have improved with age. Indeed, a vast amount of
inn-lore (we have folk-lore, why not inn-lore?) may be picked up by the
road traveller of to-day, from talkative landlords and communicative
ostlers, if he be a good listener. I should think that I have gathered
this journey sufficient anecdotes of the road, good, bad, and
indifferent, to fill two chapters at least. But the stories lose much
when retold in prosaic print; it is the persons who tell them, and the
manner of telling, together with suitable surroundings, that give them a
special charm. To do them justice you must hear them in a remote country
hostelry from the lips of some jovial old host--for a few such may still
be found on the way--whose interest lies in that direction; and if told
in his low-ceilinged parlour, hung round with prints of coaching and
sporting subjects, produced in the pre-chromo-lithographic age, so much
the better; if over a pipe, better still. Then perchance mine host may
settle down and warm up to his subject, when one story will inevitably
suggest another, and that still another, and so on apparently _ad
infinitum_, till your note-book is filled with all sorts of curious
histories. Or failing the landlord, the “wrinkled ostler, grim and
thin,” may well supply his place; and the rambling old inn-yard where
some of the wonderful feats related took place, or are presumed to have
taken place, forms a very appropriate and telling background to the
tale. We have had the _Tales of my Landlord_. Who will give us the
_Tales of an Ostler_? These, judging from my own selection, might, with
a little necessary weeding, prove interesting and, in certain cases,
even sensational reading.

I well remember, some few years back, when touring in Yorkshire, the
aged ostler of a solitary inn on the moors, where we were weather-bound
for a time, related to me, by way of pleasantly passing the time, a
blood-curdling story about the house in the “good old times.” I must say
that the story suited well the building, for it was a bleak,
inhospitable-looking house, with long untenanted, unfurnished chambers,
its stables going to decay, and mostly given over to cobwebs and
half-starved mice--the whole place looking doubly dreary in the dripping
rain: a gray drooping sky and a soughing wind serving only too
successfully to accentuate its dismalness. “Ah,” exclaimed the ostler as
we stood together sheltering from the steady downpour in a corner of the
stables, “there were queer doings in the old place. I’ve heard tell, in
past times, many a belated traveller who put up here for the night never
got no further if he were supposed to have much money upon him; that is,
for the landlord then, they do say, combined inn-keeping with robbery.
There were one bedroom in the house where they used to put likely
travellers to sleep, and this had a secret door to it. It’s yon room
with the low window overlooking the yard, and, well, next morning the
traveller had disappeared no one knew

[Sidenote: _A GRUESOME STORY_]

where; but a lot of skeletons have been found when digging in the moor
round about. However, one night the landlord caught a Tartar. There was
a scuffle in the room, and some pistol shots were heard, and the
landlord was found dead on the floor: the traveller turned out to be a
famous highwayman, who so cowed the rest of the house that he rode off
in the morning with a good share of the landlord’s plunder to which he
quietly helped himself.” But then the story may not be true, or only
true in part, for tradition is a sad scandal-monger; and tradition,
unlike a rolling stone, gathers substance as it goes on. I should
perhaps state, in fairness to the worthy ostler’s tale-telling talent,
that I have only given his grim story in brief, and have purposely
omitted some very gruesome and thrilling details that he positively
gloated over. These my readers can supply for themselves if they be so
minded, providing a trap-door in the floor of the chamber, with a deep
well immediately below, and flavouring to taste.

But to return to the “Bell” at Stilton, from which I have wandered far
afield. This gray and ancient hostelry, with its weather-tinted walls,
produced an impression upon us difficult to analyse; it verily seemed as
though there must be some old legend or mystery connected with the
building and only waiting to be discovered. The glamour of romance
seemed to brood over it: a romance in which the “knights of the road”
figured prominently, and we began to weave a little story “all our own,”
after the most approved manner of Harrison Ainsworth. Dick Turpin must
have known this hostelry very well, it being on his favourite and most
paying line of road; and the chances are that he stopped at it more than
once, for it was in a remote position and a convenient halting-place for
his calling. Outwardly the old inn may be a trifle more time-toned and
not so trim or well kept as then, but otherwise I do not imagine that
either it or the town has altered much since his day. On the whole it
doubtless looks much the same to us now as it did to him. Stilton is a
place that in an age of change has remained unchanged; since the last
coach departed thence it appears to have fallen into a deep sleep with
small prospect of ever awakening again. The railway has left it quite
out in the cold. Of Stilton it may truly be written, “It was!”

Dick Turpin must have passed by the “Bell” on his famous ride to
York--if ever that ride took place, for sundry hard-headed and
hard-hearted antiquaries, who ought to know better, declare the episode
to be as apocryphal as the “Battle of Dorking.” Legends should not be
judged by the same standard as matter-of-fact history! I wish learned
authorities would devote their time to some more profitable task than
that of upsetting innocent and perfectly harmless romances: already they
have demolished nearly all the fabled stories of my childhood, besides a
host of my favourite traditions which I liked to feel might be true,
such as the picturesque elopement of Dorothy Vernon. “In reality nine
out of every ten traditions are deliberate inventions.” Possibly;
nevertheless I find no special pleasure in being assured that “Cæsar
never cried that cry to Brutus; Cromwell never said ‘Take away that
bauble’; Wellington denied that he uttered, ‘Up, Guards, and at them!’
and the story of Cambronne declaring that ‘The Old Guard dies, but never
surrenders,’ is now known to have been invented by Rougemont two days
after the battle.... As for the Abbé Edgeworth’s farewell to Louis XVI.
on the guillotine, the cry of the crew of the sinking _Vengeur_, and the
pretty story of young Barra in the war of La Vendée--these are all
myths”--and more’s the pity!

It was with great reluctance that we bade goodbye to the quaint and
ancient “Bell” at Stilton, and in spite of the unreliability of
traditions generally, we could not help wondering whether there were any
truth in the oft-repeated story that Dick Turpin had half the landlords
between London and York “under articles” to him, and if the then
landlord of this special inn were one of them.

[Sidenote: _MILES FROM ANYWHERE_]

On the front of a lonely little hostel at Upware, in the wide Fenland of
Cambridgeshire, is inscribed “Five Miles from Anywhere. No Hurry,” and
it struck us that these words might equally well be painted on the
front, or beneath the sign, of the “Bell” at Stilton. There is a sense
of remoteness about the decayed, medieval hostelry that suits well the
legend: for Stilton is miles from anywhere, and it seems generations
removed from the present prosaic age of progress, rush, and bustle. It
is a spot in which the past appears the reality, and the present a
dream!




CHAPTER VII

     Norman Cross--A Norman-French inscription--A re-headed statue--The
     friendliness of the road--The art of being delightful--The turnpike
     roads in their glory--Bits for the curious--A story of the
     stocks--“Wansford in England”--Romance and reality--The glamour of
     art--“The finest street between London and Edinburgh”--Ancient
     “Callises”--A historic inn--Windows that have tales to tell.


Leaving Stilton we had a pleasant stretch of rural country of the
restful, home-like, friendly order, but none the less beautiful because
of an unambitious type. It was a constant delight to us to search for,
and to discover what was most beautiful in the everyday English country
we passed through; the charm of such quiet scenery is that it never
palls nor becomes wearisome with familiarity, as more pretentious
landscapes often do. Far fresher and more enjoyable was it, to us, to
wander leisurely about rural England out of the well-beaten tourist
track than to traverse a district famous for its scenery, belauded by
guide-books, and crowded by excursionists, where beforehand you know
almost exactly what to expect and where therefore pleasant surprises, or
discoveries, are rare; but, on the other hand, by anticipating too much,
disappointment often awaits one.

[Sidenote: _A MATTER OF SENTIMENT_]

At Norman Cross, a tiny hamlet with a suggestive name, situated about a
mile on our way out of Stilton, there are the slight remains of the
colony of barracks that were erected in the last century, wherein some
thousands of French prisoners were confined during the Napoleonic wars.
From Norman Cross we drove merrily along until we came to the pretty
village of Water Newton, pleasantly situated by the side of the river
Nen, or Nene,--for I find it spelt both ways on my map. Here the
time-mellowed church, placed rather in a hollow a meadow’s length away
from the road, attracted our attention, though why it especially did so
I hardly know, for there was apparently nothing particularly noteworthy
about it, at least not more so than any one of the other country fanes
we had passed unregarded by that day. Moreover, our tastes for the
moment did not incline to things ecclesiastical. But it is a fact, that
now and then, without any definable cause, a certain spot, or place,
will excite one’s interest and arouse within one a strong desire to stop
and explore it: such sentimental, but very real, feelings defy all
reasoning; they exist but cannot be explained or reduced to an argument.

So half-involuntarily we pulled up here. “We must see that old church,”
we exclaimed, though wherefore the compulsion we did not inquire of
ourselves; but we went, in spite of the fact that it was getting late
and that we had some miles more to accomplish before we reached
Stamford, our night’s destination. In the churchyard we noticed an
ancient stone coffin and lid, but we had seen many such stone coffins
and lids before, so that these did not specially appeal to us. Then
walking round the building, in search of any object of interest, we
happened to glance at the tower, and on its west side we espied, about a
third of the way up, a recess with a carved stone figure of a man
standing therein, the hands of which were clasped as though in prayer.
This at once excited our curiosity. On looking further we observed an
inscription below the figure apparently in Norman-French, but the
lettering was so much defaced that it was difficult to decipher, a
difficulty increased by the distance we were away from it; nevertheless,
nothing daunted, we boldly made the attempt, and whilst puzzling over
the spelling without, be it confessed, making much progress, the rector
fortunately discovered us and kindly came to our aid. Existence is
doubtless somewhat uneventful in this quiet spot, and possibly he was
not averse to the scarce luxury of a chat with a stranger. I must say it
seems to me that the life many of our refined and educated clergy lead
in remote, out-of-the-way rural districts, is not altogether an enviable
one, for, as a rule, the society of such is sadly restricted, and the
conversational powers of the farmers and agricultural labourers are apt
to be somewhat limited, not to say monotonous. Arcadia has its delights,
but they are not academical. The chief charms of ruralism to some people
are to be found second-hand in “open-air” books! Therein lies the
difference between the genuine and the pseudo Nature lover.

[Sidenote: _AN ANCIENT INSCRIPTION_]

The church had been restored recently, so the rector informed us, and by
aid of a ladder the inscription had been deciphered as follows:--

                            VOVS : KE : PAR
                             ISSI : PASSEZ
                            PVR : LE : ALME
                              TOMAS : PVR
                              DEN : PRIEZ

which I afterwards put into English thus, though I do not profess to be
a Norman-French scholar, but in this case the translation seems
manifest:--You that pass by here pray for the soul of Thomas Purden.
This truly sounds rather like a command than begging a favour of a
stranger, still I trust that this Thomas Purden had his demands amply
gratified, and I further trust that his soul has benefited thereby--but
what of the countless number of souls of other poor folk, equally dear
to them, who had neither money nor influence to cause such an entreaty
to be made public thus for their benefit? It was a hard faith that
seemed to make it thus easier “for a rich man to enter the kingdom of
God” than for a poor man, and calls to mind the Puritans’ dictum that
Purgatory was invented to enrich the priest!

Who this Thomas Purden was the rector could not say, possibly now no one
can: he may have been the founder of the church, though in that case one
would have expected to find this memorial of him in the chancel,
according to the prevailing custom; it appears to me more probable,
therefore, that he was the builder of the tower, or possibly a
benefactor of the church; but this is pure conjecture on my part, and
conjectures must be taken for what they are worth.

The head of the statue, we were informed, was not the original one,
which had decayed away or had been broken off, so that at the time of
the restoration of the church the figure was headless: “However,” we
were informed, “the builder, curiously enough, had some old carved stone
heads knocking about his yard, and he fitted on one of these in place of
the missing one”! Thus is the lot of the future antiquary made hard: but
this is not so blameworthy as an instance that came under my notice on a
previous tour, when I discovered that a mason had inserted an ancient
dated stone over the porch of an old house he had been called in to
repair, solely because he had it on hand and thought it looked
ornamental there! This was enough to deceive the very archæological
elect! I have to confess that the new head supplied to Master Thomas
Purden appeared to be, from our point of view below, a good “ready-made”
fit; but therein lies the greater pitfall for the future antiquary
aforementioned.

“Now,” exclaimed the rector, “you will doubtless wonder why the figure
with such an appeal to the public was placed on the side of the tower
facing the meadows, and not on the side facing the road.” As a matter of
fact this detail had not occurred to us; one cannot think of
everything--though we tried to look surprised at the fact--then the
rector continued, apparently pleased by our perspicacity: “Well,
formerly the road went past the west front of the tower, close under it
indeed, and crossed the river by a ford; if you look along the fields
you can see traces of it even now.” So we looked and imagined we could
see the traces in question, but our eyes, naturally, were not so
accustomed to make them out as those of our informant. Then the rector,
seeing the manifest interest we took in his church, most courteously
devoted himself to us, and good-naturedly acted the part of guide, for
which attentive civility we felt duly grateful. But that was not all,
for after we had finished our inspection of the building, he, with
thoughtful kindness, invited us into his snug rectory, hospitably intent
on making us partake of afternoon tea; and this was by no means a
solitary occasion of such a kindness shown to us--pressed upon us would
be the more exact expression; utter strangers travelling by road!

[Sidenote: _THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS_]

Indeed, during our tour, the difficulty that frequently presented itself
to us when we did not wish to dally on the way was how we could
gracefully decline the many proffered invitations of a similar nature
without appearing to be rude. At one time we thought that probably the
sight of the dog-cart, as showing that we were presumably respectable
wayfarers, might have had something to do with the continued courtesies
we received, for in almost every stranger we met we seemed to find a
friend; but when touring alone on a walking tour, with only a knapsack
strapped on my back, I have experienced the same kindly treatment, often
too when in a dust-stained condition. On one well-remembered occasion
during the shooting season, when trespassing afoot across some moors in
search of a short cut, I came suddenly upon the owner of the land with
his party lunching; the owner was inclined to be indignant with me at
first, but an apology for my inexcusable trespass quietly expressed was
followed by a few minutes’ conversation, which ended in my being invited
to join the lunching party, no refusal being permitted. “We insist upon
your joining us as a penalty for your trespassing,” was the jovial
manner in which the invitation was enforced, and I accepted the
inevitable without further demur!

After all the world is much as we make it; smile on it and it returns
your smiles, frown and it frowns back again, greet it good-naturedly and
it will return your greeting in kind. As Seneca says, “He that would
make his travels delightful must first make himself delightful.” And to
do this he should cultivate a pleasant manner; it costs so little and
returns so much, obtaining favours for which money would not avail, and
generally smoothing wonderfully the way of the wanderer. Thus Emerson
sings--

    What boots it thy virtue?
    What profit thy parts?
    The one thing thou lackest,
    The art of all arts.

    The only credential,
    Passport to success,
    Opens castles and parlours,--
    Address, man, address.

And Emerson knew!

During our past wanderings on wheels we have made numerous friends, and
have received many kind invitations to spend a time at their homes, and
in the course of this journey we received three such invitations, all
from perfect strangers; only one of which we were enabled to accept, and
in that case a most hearty welcome was extended to us. Such generous
hospitality shown, which included stabling our horses, such a manifest
anxiety evinced to make our short stay as enjoyable as possible, that
mere thanks seemed a wholly insufficient return.

But to return to Water Newton church, after this digression and short
sermon on civility which my readers are fully licensed to skip, the
rector called our attention to the painstaking manner in which the tower
was constructed: “All of ashlar work and scarcely any mortar, or cement,
being used. The top of the tower has one feature about it that tells its
own story; as you will see, a quantity of old Norman tooth-moulding has
been employed in the window arches, manifestly preserved from an earlier
building, for the joints of the ornamentations do not come evenly
together; thus plainly proving resetting. On the farther and fourth side
of the tower that is less seen the windows have none of this moulding,
but are simply finished off in unadorned stone-work, the builders having
presumably used up all the old carving in the more prominent positions.”

[Sidenote: _A CURIOUS NAME_]

Then entering the church the rector pointed out to us the name of
“Original Jackson” cut in a flat tombstone on the floor. The Christian
name of “Original” being curious and, as far as I know, unique. At one
time we learnt that there had been a dove-cote in the tower, or rather a
portion of it formed a dove-cote of considerable size, and was doubtless
a source of profit to the pre-Reformation clergy. At the foot of the
tower is the old vestry door, and a very narrow one it is, so narrow
indeed that, the story goes, a former priest of goodly proportions was
unable to pass through it; therefore, as the door could not be
conveniently altered, a new vestry with an ampler means of approach had
to be devised. In a window recess in the south aisle is a recumbent
stone effigy, much mutilated and cracked; the feet of this rest upon a
lion, apparently showing the figure, which is under lifesize, to be
intended to represent a man, yet the features of the head with its long
hair suggest a woman. We understood that this effigy was the cause of
considerable dispute amongst antiquaries as to whether it were
representative of a knight or a dame. We decided in favour of the lady.
The church, we were informed, “is dedicated to St. Remigius, an almost
unique dedication in England.”

Then adjourning to the rectory we were shown there some very interesting
specimens of Roman pottery and other ancient relics that the rector
himself had found in a gravel-pit near by, at a spot where an old Roman
encampment once had been. To show how times have changed we were told
that two old houses between the rectory and

[Sidenote: _SHOEING CATTLE!_]

the road were formerly small but flourishing inns; and that an old
farmer, aged eighty-three, who lived in an ivy-clad farmhouse a little
farther on our way, well remembers sixteen mail-coaches passing Water
Newton in the day: this was besides the ordinary non-mail-coaches, of
which there were a number. Another reminder of other days and other
ways, in the shape of a bygone custom quite novel to us, we gleaned from
an old gaffer we met on the way. From him we learnt that in the
pre-railway days, when the cattle were driven along the Great North Road
from Scotland to the London markets, the animals were actually shod like
horses so that their hoofs might stand the long journey on the hard
highway. Several blacksmiths on the road moreover, we were given to
understand, made a special business of shoeing such cattle apart from
shoeing horses. So one travels and picks up curious bits of information.
One man we saw gathering nettles assured us that, boiled, they made a
delicious green vegetable, besides purifying the blood and being a cure
for boils and the rheumatics. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “I should not wonder
some day, when their virtues are discovered, to find rich people growing
them in their gardens instead of spinach and the like. Nettles be a
luxury. Now, if ever you suffers from the rheumatics mind you tries
nettles, they beat all the doctor’s medicine; they just do.” And we
promised to think the matter over. The idea of any one ever growing
crops of nettles in their kitchen-gardens amused us. Still the weed,
vegetable I mean, may have hidden virtues I wot not of; and possibly it
is not altogether wise to dismiss as absolute nonsense every item of
country folk-lore one comes upon. I always jot such sayings down in my
note-book, and shall soon have quite a collection of them. I remember
one simple remedy that a farmer’s wife told me of when a youngster,
which, boy-like, I at once tried--and actually found it effectual! Some
of the countryfolk’s cures, however, may be considered worse than the
disease. Here, for instance, is one for baldness that I have not tested:
“Rub well the bald parts with a fresh onion just cut, twice a day, for
ten minutes at a time at least; and you must never miss a rubbing till
the hair begins to grow again”!

Leaving Water Newton we drove on through a level country, passing in
about a mile or so some ancient stocks and a whipping-post on a grassy
corner by the roadside; these had been painted manifestly to preserve
them as a curiosity. Some day, like ducking-stools and scolds’ gags,
they will possibly only be found in a museum. According to a paragraph
in a local paper that I extracted the gist of on the journey, the last
time that a man was condemned to the stocks in England was at the
village of Newbold-on-Avon in Warwickshire late in this century. The man
in question was a confirmed drunkard, and the magistrates fined him 7s.
6d. with the option of being placed in the stocks: the drunkard chose
the stocks which he well knew were decayed and unfit for use; so they
were forthwith repaired at some expense, which being done the man
suddenly found the money for the fine and so

[Sidenote: _LOCAL PAPERS_]

escaped the indignity of the stocks, and the doubtful honour of being
the last person to be legally confined therein. When all else fails in
the evenings at country inns, the local papers often afford much
entertainment combined with information. The local antiquaries
occasionally write to them upon matters of interest in the
neighbourhood; and such communications are frequently well worth
reading, for by perusing them the traveller out of the beaten track may
obtain intelligence of old-time relics and quaint rural customs that he
would otherwise probably never hear of, and such things are well worth
knowing and preserving.

Wansford, the next village we came to, pleased us by its picturesqueness
and its pleasant situation on the banks of the Nene, a wide and
fishful-looking stream whose name we did not even know before we
undertook this tour; so that driving across country teaches one a good
deal about the geography of one’s own land, besides affording the road
wanderer an intimate knowledge of it, never obtainable from the railway.

Wansford is built of stone and is a charming specimen of an old English
village; its houses and cottages strike the eye as being substantial,
comfortable, and enduring; for you cannot well build meanly with stone.
One large house in the village street, large enough to deserve the
often-misappropriated term of mansion, with its stone-slab, overhanging
roof, and strong stacks of chimneys, especially pleased us; neither
roof, wall, nor window seemed as though any one of them would need
repairs for long years: possibly this building was originally a fine
old coaching inn, for it stood close upon the roadway. Oh! the comfort
of a well-built home like this, with a roof fit to weather the storms of
centuries, and thick walls, so charmingly warm in winter and so
delightfully cool in summer, wherein you may dwell in peace, and bills
for repairs are almost an unknown thing.

The church here is a box-like structure, small, primitive, and ugly, and
we merely went to view it because the rector at Water Newton had told us
that the ancient font thereof was curious; it being carved round with
men fighting--scarcely an appropriate ornamentation for a font in a
Christian church though, one would imagine! Quite in keeping with the
rude interior of this tiny fane is the wooden gallery at one end, with
the most suitable inscription:--

    This Loft Erected
    January 1st, 1804.

I have only to add that it is an excellent example of the Churchwarden
era of architecture, and you seldom find a structure of the period more
ugly.

At Wansford we crossed the river Nene on a fine old stone bridge of
thirteen arches, if we counted them aright: a solid bit of building
pleasing to look upon and making a pretty picture from the meadows below
with the clustering, uneven roofs of the village for a background. Over
the centre arch let in the wall we noticed a stone inscribed P. M. 1577.
Wansford is curiously called locally “Wansford in England” and has been
so called for generations. In my copy of _Drunken Barnaby’s four
journeys to the North of England_, edition of 1778, I find the following
lines:--

    Thence to Wansforth-brigs ...

           *       *       *       *       *

    On a haycock sleeping soundly,
    Th’ River rose and took me roundly
    Down the Current: People cry’d
    Sleeping down the stream I hy’d:
    _Where away_, quoth they, _from Greenland?
    No; from Wansforth brigs in England._

[Sidenote: _A GREAT ARCHITECT_]

Now we hastened along to “Stamford town,” some six miles farther on,
where we proposed to spend the night. Just before we reached our
destination we passed to our right Burleigh park and house. Of the
latter we had a good view: a splendid pile it is, stately but not too
stately, dignified yet homelike, it combines picturesqueness with
grandeur--a rare and difficult achievement for any architect and one for
which Vanbrugh strove in vain; the more merit therefore to the famous
John Thorpe who designed Burleigh House, in my humble opinion the
greatest of English architects; his works speak his praises. The man who
originated the Elizabethan style of architecture was no ordinary genius!
Thorpe built pictures, he was never commonplace.

My readers will remember Tennyson’s well-known lines about the “Lord of
Burleigh” and his village spouse; unfortunately, like the charming story
of Dorothy Vernon’s elopement, the romance loses much of its gilt by
too critical an examination. The lovely and loving Countess was the
Lord’s second wife, he having married another lady from whom he was
divorced. After the separation, acting upon the advice of his uncle, and
having lost all his own fortune, he retired into the country and
eventually took lodgings with a farmer named Thomas Hoggins at Bolas in
Shropshire, giving himself out to be a certain Mr. Jones, not an
uncommon name. Here “Mr. Jones,” possibly finding time hanging heavily
on his hands, promptly made love to his landlord’s daughter Sarah, the
village beauty, and eventually married her. It was not till after the
death of his uncle that he became “Lord of Burleigh,” all of which is a
matter of history. It was after this event, when he succeeded to the
Earldom and estates, that his rank was revealed, much in the romantic
manner that Tennyson relates. Then the new “Lord of Burleigh” took his
innocent and loving wife by easy stages to her home, pointing out all
the country sights and mansions on the way, she dreaming all the while
of the little cottage he so long had promised her--

    All he shows her makes him dearer:
      Evermore she seems to gaze
    On that cottage growing nearer,
      Where they twain will spend their days.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Thus her heart rejoices greatly,
      Till a gateway she discerns
    With armorial bearings stately,
      And beneath the gate she turns;
    Sees a mansion more majestic
      Than all those she saw before:
    Many a gallant gay domestic
      Bows before him at the door.
    And they speak in gentle murmur,
      When they answer to his call,
    While he treads with footstep firmer,
      Leading on from hall to hall.
    And, while now she wonders blindly,
      Nor the meaning can divine,
    Proudly turns he round and kindly,
      “All of this is mine and thine.”

[Sidenote: _A PICTURESQUE TOWNSCAPE_]

Driving into Stamford, a place we had never visited before, we were
struck by the familiarity of the townscape presented to us; it seemed to
greet us like an old friend, whose face we had often seen. The square
towers, the tall tapering spires, with the gable-fronted,
mullion-windowed old houses, and the picturesque way that these towers,
steeples, and old-fashioned houses were grouped and contrasted had a
strangely well-known look--yet how could this be if we had not beheld
them before? Then we suddenly solved the promising mystery by
remembering that it was Turner’s engraved drawing of Stamford in his
“England and Wales” series of views that had brought the prospect to
mind. In this case--judging by our recollection of the engraving, a
great favourite, so strongly impressed upon us--Turner has been more
than usually topographically faithful: he appears to have taken very
little, if any, liberty with the buildings or the composition of the
subject--possibly because the natural grouping is so good, that art
could not, for the nonce, improve picturesquely upon fact. For it is not
the province of true art to be realistic, but to be poetic; the painter
is not a mere transcriber, but a translator. There is such a thing as
pictorial poetry; the pencil can, and should, be employed sincerely yet
romantically. Observe, in this very drawing of Stamford, how Turner,
whilst not departing one whit from the truth, has by the perfectly
possible, yet wonderful, sky-scape he has introduced, with the effective
play of light and shade that would be caused thereby, strong yet not
forced, and the happy arrangement of figures and the old coach in the
foreground, added the grace of poetry to the natural charms of the
ordinary street scene. The photograph can give us hard facts and precise
details, enough and to spare, yet somehow to the artistic soul the
finest photographs have a want, they are purely mechanical, soulless,
and unromantic. They lack the glamour of the painter’s vision, who gives
us the gold and is blind to the dross, he looks for the beautiful and
finds it; so he brightens his own life and those of others, and his work
is not in vain!

Scott, who often travelled by this famous Great North Road, described
St. Mary’s Hill at Stamford as being “the finest street between London
and Edinburgh,” and surely Scott ought to know! To use an artist’s slang
expression of a good subject “it takes a lot of beating.” Besides being
beautiful, Stamford is one of the most interesting towns in England,
with quite a character of its own; it is essentially individual, and
therein lies its special charm: to me it is passing strange that such a
picturesque and quaint old town should be so

[Sidenote: _AN ERST UNIVERSITY TOWN_]

neglected by the tourist, and the few who do find their way thither
appear to come attracted solely by the fame of Burleigh House, one of
the “show” mansions of the country, merely treating old-world Stamford,
with all its wealth of antiquarian and archæological interest, as a
point of departure and arrival. For Stamford--whose name is derived we
were told from “Stone-ford,” as that of Oxford is from “Ox-ford” over
the Isis--was erst a university town of renown whose splendid colleges
rivalled both those of Oxford and Cambridge, and even at one period
threatened to supersede them, and probably would have done so but for
powerful and interested political intrigues. Of these ancient colleges
there are some small but interesting remains. Spenser in his _Faerie
Queene_ thus alludes to the town:--

            Stamford, though now homely hid,
    Then shone in learning more than ever did
    Cambridge or Oxford, England’s goodly beams.

But besides the remains of its ancient colleges, Stamford possesses
several fine old churches of exceptional interest, a number of quaint
old hospitals, or “callises” as they are locally called--a term derived,
we were informed by a Stamford antiquary we met by chance, from the
famous wool merchants of “the Staple of Calais” who first founded them
here--the important ruins of St. Leonard’s Priory, crumbling old
gateways, bits of Norman arches, countless ancient houses of varied
character, and quaint odds and ends of architecture scattered about.

At Stamford we patronised the ancient and historic “George Inn,” that
still stands where it did of yore--an inn which has entertained
generations of wayfarers of various degrees from king to highwayman;
and, as in the past, opens its doors to the latter-day traveller, who,
however, seldom arrives by road. It was quite in keeping with the old
traditions of the place that we should drive into its ancient and
spacious courtyard and hand our horses over to the ostler’s charge,
whilst we two dust-stained travellers, having seen our baggage taken out
of the dog-cart, should follow it indoors, where the landlord stood
ready to welcome us, just as former landlords on the self-same spot
might have welcomed former travellers posting across country. During the
month of August 1645, Charles I. slept a night here on his way south
from Newark; it was Scott’s favourite halting-place on his many journeys
to and from London--and many other notables, of whom the list is long,
have feasted and slept beneath the sign of the “George” at Stamford.
“Walls have ears,” says the old familiar proverb: would that the walls
of the “George” had tongues to tell us something of the people who have
rested and feasted within its ancient chambers, to repeat for our
benefit the unrecorded sayings, witticisms, stories of strange
adventures on the king’s highway, and aught else of interest that may
have passed their lips. Marvellous men were some of those ancestors of
ours, who would sit outside a coach all day, and sit up half the night
consuming their three bottles of port, yet rise in the morning
headacheless and proceed with their journey smiling. There must be some
wonderful recuperative virtue about life in the open air, otherwise they
could hardly have led the life they did. Up early, and to bed late, with
port, or punch, nearly every night, and sometimes both--and yet we have
no record of their complaining of dyspepsia! Again I repeat they were
marvellous men; peace be to their ashes.

[Sidenote: _RECORDS ON GLASS_]

In many a coaching inn they have left mementoes of themselves by
scratching their names with dates, and sometimes with added verses, on
the window panes of the rooms: these always deeply interest and appeal
to me; they tell so little and so much! The mere scratches of a diamond
on the fragile glass have been preserved all those years, they look so
fresh they might have been done only a month ago. Nowadays it is only
the “‘Arrys” who are supposed to do this sort of thing, but in the olden
times even notable personages did not deem it beneath their dignity thus
to record their names. On the window of the room in which Shakespeare
was born at Stratford-on-Avon may be found the genuine signature of the
“Wizard of the North,” in company with those of other famed and unfamed
men and women. Where walls are silent, windows sometimes speak! I have
noted dates on these of nearly two centuries ago; the names of the
writers being thus unwittingly preserved whilst perchance they have
weathered away from their tombstones. Such records as the following
which I select haphazard from my note-book are interesting:--“Peter
Lewis 1735. Weather-bound,” or “G. L. stopped on the heath by three
men,” or again, “T. Lawes, 1765. Flying machine broken down, Vile
roades.” Suggestive comments that one can enlarge and romance upon. Now
and then these old-time travellers instead of leaving their names behind
them indulged their artistic propensities by drawing, more or less
roughly, representations of coats-of-arms, and crests, or else gibbets,
highwaymen, and such like. These old records on glass are an interesting
study, and are mostly to be found on bedroom windows; but panes get
broken in time, or destroyed during alterations, or the old houses
themselves get improved away, so these reminders of past days and
changed conditions of life and travel gradually grow fewer: it is
therefore wise of the curious to make note of them when they can.

In the coffee-room of the “George” we met a pleasant company consisting
of three belated cyclists, and with them we chatted of roads, of
scenery, and many things besides till a late hour, when we retired to
rest and found that we had allotted to us a large front bedroom. We
could not help wondering how many other travellers, and who they might
have been, the same chamber had sheltered since the inn was first
established in the years gone by. Probably--it was even more than
probable--Scott himself may have slept in the very chamber we occupied.
Verily a glamour of the long ago, a past presence, seems to hang over
this ancient and historic hostelry! It is haunted with memories!




CHAPTER VIII

     A picturesque ruin--Round about Stamford--Browne’s “Callis”--A chat
     with an antiquary--A quaint interior--“Bull-running”--A relic of a
     destroyed college--An old Carmelite gateway--A freak of
     Nature--Where Charles I. last slept as a free man--A storied
     ceiling--A gleaner’s bell--St. Leonard’s Priory--Tennyson’s
     county--In time of vexation--A
     flood--Hiding-holes--Lost!--Memorials of the past.


Early in the morning we started out to explore the town; first, however,
we found our way to Wothorpe a short mile off, from whence there is a
fine view of Stamford. At Wothorpe are the picturesque ruins of a small
mansion built by the first Earl of Exeter: “to retire out of the dust,”
as he playfully remarked, “whilst his great house at Burleigh was
a-sweeping.” The deserted and time-rent mansion is finely built of
carefully squared stones and has four towers one at each corner, square
at the base, but octagonal at the top; these towers, judging from an old
print we saw in a shop window at Stamford, were formerly capped by
shaped stone roofs, which in turn were surmounted by great weathercocks:
the towers when complete must have been quite a feature in the
structure, and have given it a special character--a touch of quaintness
that is always so charming and attractive in a building. The ruins are
weather-toned and ivy-grown and make a very pretty picture, though only
the outer crumbling walls remain. Wothorpe has arrived at such a
pathetic state of decay as to be almost picturesquely perfect, and
pleads to be admired! Man has ruined it, but nature left to work her own
sweet will has beautified it, for she has draped it with greenery, has
tinted its stones, and broken up its rigid symmetry. It is a sad thought
that a building should be more beautiful in ruin than in its perfect
state, but, as Byron says,

                      there is a power
      And magic in the ruin’d battlement,
      For which the palace of the present hour
    Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.

From this spot we retraced our steps to Stamford, and wandering
desultorily about the town eventually came upon Browne’s Hospital, Bede
House, or Callis; a most interesting old building, the exterior of which
suggested to us a quaint interior, so we determined to obtain a glimpse
of the latter, if possible. As we were ascending the steps to inquire if
the place were shown we encountered a gentleman coming down, whom
instinctively we took to be an antiquary; though why we should have
jumped at such a conclusion it would be hard to say; and oddly enough it
turned out that we were correct in our conjectures, so we ventured to
ask him whether he thought we should be able to obtain admittance to the
building. There is nothing lost in this world by seizing opportunities
and asking polite questions, for oftentimes the traveller gains

[Sidenote: _“A BROTHER LUNATIC!”_]

much thereby. In this case we were well rewarded for making so simple an
inquiry, for the stranger, noting the interest we took in the fine old
building, appeared forthwith to take an interest in us, and thereupon
offered to show us over it himself--a civil word how profitable it
sometimes is!--he even appeared to enjoy his self-imposed task of doing
duty as a guide. Possibly it pleased him to have a talk with a
sympathetic soul as it did another antiquary we met later on, who on
parting with us jokingly remarked: “It has been a treat to exchange
views with a brother lunatic!” so bearing this in mind we chatted with
our new friend about things old, of bygone times, and of
antiquarian-lore galore--for he was a man whose life seemed in the past,
his conversation gave one the impression that he was born at least a
century too late for his own pleasure. The result of our discourse was
that on leaving the hospital we had so gained his good-will that he
further offered to show us something of the town, “As strangers might
readily miss so much, and I should like to point out to you a few of the
chief objects of interest”; then he added, “It will not be any trouble
to me; I’ve nothing particular to do this morning.” We were only too
glad to accept his kind aid, and greatly did we enjoy our exploration of
Stamford under his helpful guidance.

But to “hark back” a little. Upon entering the old hospital our
attention was called to the carved stone figure of the founder over the
doorway, where he is shown holding a plan of the building in his hands.
Then we were led into a large, long hall having a heavy oak-beamed
ceiling. Here originally (I am now quoting from the notes I made on the
spot of what we were told) the poor inmates slept in cubicles, access to
which was gained by a gangway down the centre of the hall. Now that the
old folk have sleeping accommodation in another portion of the hospital,
the floor has been tiled, and the tiles are so laid as to show the
shape, size, and plan of the cubicles. A very excellent idea--if changes
must be made. Some ancient stained glass in a window here has “the
founder’s chief crest” painted thereon, “for the founder’s family had
the right to use two crests; only two other families in England having
this right.” The “chief crest” is a phœnix, it is placed over a
coat-of-arms on which three teasels are shown (these teasels puzzled us
until our friend explained what they were). The motto given is “_X me
sped_,” “Christ me speed,” we Anglicised it. An old “gridiron” table of
the time of Charles I. stood, when we were there, in the centre of the
hall; the ends of this draw out to extend it--an idea that the modern
furniture manufacturer might well consider as a possible improvement
upon the usual troublesome leaves and screw, nor prize it the less
because so long invented. I have a table made in a similar fashion and
find it most useful; two rings forming handles to pull out the ends.

Then we came to the chapel, divided from the hall by a carved oak
screen; all the inmates are compelled to attend service here twice a
day. The large chapel window, with a high transom, is filled

[Sidenote: _RELICS OF THE PAST_]

with fine old stained glass, on a bit of which we discerned the date
1515. The bench-ends are good. As well as these we had pointed out to us
in its original position the pre-Reformation altar-stone, distinguished
by the usual five crosses upon it. At one side of the altar was an
ancient “cope-chair, in this the priest sat down, his cope covering the
chair, and from it he blessed the congregation. There were formerly two
of these chairs, but one was stolen”! Then we were shown a rare old
wooden alms-box of the fifteenth century; this was bound round with
iron.

In the quaint old audit room over the hall, where we went next, painted
on a wooden panel set in the centre end of the wall we found the
following ancient inscription, commencing in Latin and ending in
English:--

                   Haec Domus Eleemosynaria fundata
                        Fuit a Guilielmo Browne
                 Anno Do[=n]i 1495. Anno Regio Henrici
                              VII Decimo

    This structure new contains twelve habitations
    Which shall remain for future generations
    For old and poore, for weake and men unhealthy.
    This blessed house was founded not for wealthy.
    Hee that endowed for aye and this house builded.
    By this good act hath to sinne pardon yielded.
    The honour of the country and this towne
    Alas now dead his name was William Browne.
    Be it an house of prayer and to diuine
    Duties devoted else not called mine.

Ten old men and two old women are boarded and cared for here, we learnt;
the women having to act as nurses if required. Outside the building
away from the road is a very picturesque and quiet courtyard with
cloisters; these seem verily to enclose an old-world atmosphere, a calm
that is of another century. The wall-girt stillness, the profound peace
of the place made so great an impression on us that for the moment the
throbbing and excited nineteenth century seemed ages removed, as though
the present were a fevered dream and only existed in our imagination. So
do certain spots enthral one with the sentiment of the far-away both in
time and space! From here there is a view to be had of a gable end of
the founder’s house; the greater part of the building having been pulled
down, and only this small portion remaining.

The broad street outside Browne’s “Callis” was, we were told, the
opening scene of the bull-running. Most towns in past days, as is well
known, indulged in the “gentle sport” of bull-baiting, but from time
immemorial in Stamford bull-running took its place as an institution
peculiar to the town. The bull-running, we were told, was carried on,
more or less, in the following fashion. Early in the morning of the day
devoted to the “gentle sport” a bell-man went round to warn all people
to shut their shops, doors, gates, etc., then afterwards at a certain
hour a wild bull, the wilder the better, was let loose into the streets
and then the sport began. The populace, men, women, and boys, ran after
the bull, armed with cudgels, with which they struck it and goaded it to
fury; all the dogs of the town, needless to say, joining in the

[Sidenote: _AN ANCIENT SPORT_]

sport and adding to the medley. By evening if the bull were not killed,
or driven into the river and perchance drowned, he was despatched by an
axe. Men occasionally of course got tossed, or gored, during these
disgusting and lively proceedings, and others were injured in various
ways: indeed it seems to have been very much like a Spanish bull-fight
vulgarised. This sport continued till about the year 1838. I presume
that there was no “Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals”
then; or is it that cruelty does not count when sport comes in? for as a
supporter of the Society once laid down the law to me dogmatically thus:
“It’s cruelty to thrash a horse, even if he be vicious, but it’s not
cruelty to hunt a fox or a hare, as that is sport; so we never interfere
with hunting: neither is bull-fighting cruel, for that is a sport.”
Well, my favourite sport is fly-fishing, and I am glad to learn that it
is not a cruel one, as “fish have no feelings.” But how about the boy
who impales a worm on a hook: has the worm conveniently “no feelings”
too? Shall we ever have a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Reptiles?

The origin of the Stamford bull-running appears to be lost in the mists
of antiquity; of course where history fails legend must step in, and
according to legend the sport began thus:--Some time in the thirteenth
century (delightfully vague date! why not openly “once upon a time”?) a
wild bull got out of the meadows where it was grazing near the town and
rushed into the streets; it was chased by the populace, and chased by
dogs, and eventually driven into the river and drowned, after affording
much entertainment to the townsfolk; thereupon the bull-running was
established as a sport. The legend does not sound so improbable as some
legends do, but whether based on fact or not I cannot say. It is only
for me to repeat stories as they come to my ear.

In the same street outside Browne’s “Callis,” we further learnt, the old
market cross stood which was taken down about the year 1790. According
to ancient engravings it appears to have been a structure with a tall
stone shaft in the centre, surmounted by a cross which was duly knocked
off by the Puritans; from this central shaft a roof extended to a number
of columns around, thus forming a shelter for the market folk. This
market cross is not to be confounded with a Queen Eleanor’s Cross that
stood beyond the Scot-Gate about half a mile from Stamford on the old
York and Edinburgh road. A glorious example, this latter must have been,
of one of these picturesque crosses erected in pious memory of a loved
consort, judging at least from a description of it we observed quoted in
a local guide-book we found in our hotel, which runs thus:--“A vision of
beauty, glorious with its aggregate of buttresses and niches and diaper,
and above all with the statues of Eleanor and Edward; the most beautiful
of that or any age. Shame to those savages in the Great Rebellion who
swept away the very foundations of it! But the cry of superstition hunts
down such things as these a great deal faster than age can despatch
them.”

[Sidenote: _TRADITIONS_]

Next our guide took us to the site of Brasenose College--mostly pulled
down in the seventeenth century by the corporation--but the outer wall
and an arched stone gateway still remain. On the gate here was a quaint
and ancient knocker, judged by antiquaries to be of the fourteenth
century; this was formed of a lion’s head in beaten brass holding a ring
in his mouth; we understood that it had left the town, a fact to be
regretted. It is singular that there should have been a college here of
the curious name of Brasenose, as well as the one at Oxford. There is
indeed a tradition that the veritable nose that surmounts the gateway at
Oxford came from the Stamford college, and was brought by the students
when compelled to return to their former university town. Another
tradition professes to give the origin of the peculiar name, stating it
to be derived from _brasen-hus_, or _hws_, a brew-house, it being said
that one was attached to the college--but the derivation, though just
possible, is more ingenious than convincing.

Next we were taken to see the crumbling gateway of the ancient Carmelite
Friary; this had three niches for statues above, but is more interesting
to antiquaries than to the lovers of the picturesque; it now forms the
approach to the Infirmary. Then we visited the three chief churches,
noting in St. Martin’s the magnificent altar-tomb--gorgeous with colour
and gilt, but rather dusty when we were there--of Queen Elizabeth’s Lord
Treasurer, whereon he is represented in recumbent effigy clad in
elaborately adorned armour. Men dressed their parts in those days!
Space will not permit a detailed description of these historic fanes;
indeed, to do Stamford justice would take at least several chapters, and
I have not even one to spare!

Next our wanderings led us into an old graveyard to see the last
resting-place of a famous Stamford native, whose size was his fame! His
tombstone inscription tells its own story without any further comment of
mine, and thus it runs:--

                           In Remembrance of
                        That Prodigy in Nature
                            DANIEL LAMBERT
                         who was possessed of
                     An exalted and convivial mind
                       And in personal greatness
                           Had no Competitor
             He measured three feet one inch round the leg
                 Nine feet four inches round the body
                              And Weighed
                    Fifty-two stone Eleven pounds!
                         He departed this life
                          On the 21st of June
                                 1803
                            Aged 39 years.

“An exalted and convivial mind” is good, it is a phrase worth noting.
Our good-natured guide informed us that after the death of this worthy
citizen his stockings were kept for many years hung up in a room of one
of the inns as a curiosity, and that he distinctly remembered being
taken there by his father when a boy, and being placed inside one of the
stockings.

After this in a different part of the town we had

[Sidenote: _A HUNTED KING!_]

pointed out to us “Barn Hill House,” an old gray stone building more
interesting historically than architecturally, for it was within its
walls that Charles I. slept his last night “as a free man.” He arrived
there disguised as a servant, and entered by the back-door--a hunted
king! Such are the chances and changes of fate: the ruler of a kingdom
coming stealthily in by a back-door, and seeking shelter and safety in
the house of a humble subject, clad in the lowly garb of a serving-man!
But I am moralising, a thing I dislike when others do it! possibly
through having an overdose thereof when I was a boy, for almost every
book I had, it seemed to me, concluded with a moral; till at last, I
remember, I used first to look at the end of any new work that was given
to me, and if I found the expected moral there, I troubled it no
further!

We were shown much more of interest in Stamford, a town every square
yard of which is history; but space forbids a detailed description of
all we saw. One old house we were taken over had a very quaint and
finely-enriched plaster ceiling, for builders of ancient homes did not
believe in a flat void of whitewash. The ornaments of this ceiling were
rendered in deep relief, the chief amongst them being animals playfully
arranged; for instance there was, I remember, a goose in the centre of
one panel with a fox greedily watching it on either side; another panel
showed a poor mouse with two cats eyeing it on either hand; then there
was a hare similarly gloated over by two hounds; and so forth. We
visited the site of the castle and saw the last bit of crumbling wall
left of the once imposing stronghold, also the small remains of old St.
Stephen’s gate: then we returned to our hotel, our good-natured
antiquarian friend still keeping us company.

Reaching the bridge that crosses the Welland river, which structure has
taken the place of the “stone-ford,” we had pointed out to us a line
marked upon it with an inscription, showing the height of the water at
the spot during the memorable flood of 15th July 1880, when the swollen
river rose above the arches of the bridge. On that occasion, we learnt,
our inn was flooded, the water reaching even to the top of the
billiard-table. During a former great flood in the seventeenth century,
we were told, the horses in the “George” stables were actually drowned
at their stalls.

At our inn we reluctantly parted company with our entertaining
companion, not, however, before we had thanked him for his kindness to
us as strangers. It is these pleasant chance acquaintances the wanderer
so frequently makes that add a wonderful zest to the pleasures of
travel.

The sign of the “George” inn, as of old, still hangs from the centre of
a beam that stretches right across the roadway; it is said that there
are only some twenty-five or twenty-seven signs remaining in England so
arranged. At the village of Barley in Herts, on the highway from London
to Cambridge, the “Fox and Hounds” possesses one of these signs. Here
may be seen figures of huntsmen, hounds, and fox, represented as
crossing the

[Sidenote: _A SPORTING SIGN_]

beam in full cry; the fox apparently just escaping into the thatched
roof of the inn, the hounds immediately following, whilst the merry
huntsmen bring up the rear. This very sporting sign shows well, being
strongly silhouetted against the sky; it is full of spirit and movement,
and has the charm of originality.

I have forgotten to say we were told that at the village of Ketton, in
the near neighbourhood of Stamford, a gleaners’ bell used to be rung in
due season, as well as the curfew; before the first ringing of the
former no one might glean in the fields, nor after the second ringing
was any one allowed to continue their gleaning under the penalty of a
fine, which went to the ringers. I trust I need not apologise for making
note of these old customs, from time to time, as I come upon them. The
church at Ketton is considered to be the most beautiful in the county;
it has a central tower with a broach spire, and has been compared with
St. Mary’s at Stamford: the saying being that the latter “has the more
dignity, but Ketton the greater grace.”

Before resuming our journey I may note that in the heyday of the
coaching age, I find from an old “Way Bill” that the time allowed for
the mail-coach from London to Stamford--89¼ miles--was 9 hours and 20
minutes, including changes.

Early next morning we set out from our ancient hostelry bound for
Spalding, with the intention of visiting the once far-famed Fenland
abbey of Crowland on the way, though from our map it appeared that the
roads and the dykes were rather mixed up, and our route thither was not
at all easy to trace; nor was the information we obtained at Stamford
very helpful: “It’s a good road as far as Market Deeping,” we were told,
“but beyond that you’ll have to find your way.” The worthy landlord of
the “George” came to the door to see us off, and right sorry we felt to
leave our genial host, comfortable quarters, and the interesting and
historic town of Stamford that bade us such a pleasant welcome into
Lincolnshire.

In about a mile, or less, as we drove on we espied some picturesque and
important-looking ecclesiastical ruins; these we found to be the remains
of the nave of St. Leonard’s Priory, now debased, part into a barn and
part into a shed; and what a substantial barn the solid Norman work
made! fit to last for centuries still, if let alone; and the shed upheld
by the massive Norman pillars, between which the shafts of farm carts,
and sundry agricultural implements peeped forth--what a grand shed it
was! It is not always that a farmer has his out-buildings constructed by
Norman masons! The west front of the Priory is happily little changed
from its original state, the great arched doorway and windows above
being built up, but nothing more; the arches are elaborately decorated,
and suggest that when the whole was complete it must have been a fine
specimen of Late Norman work. What a pity it is that such picturesque
and interesting relics of the past are not carefully preserved as ruins,
instead of being patched up and altered to serve purely utilitarian
purposes. The ruin of a fine building like this, raised by skilled and
pious hands for the glory of God and not for the profit of man, should
be a prized possession and left to Mother Nature’s gentle care, which is
far less destructive than man’s hands--even the restorers! There are
many things to be done in the world, but you cannot convert the nave of
a stately priory, hallowed by the worship within its walls of departed
humanity, into a barn and a cart-shed consistently!

[Sidenote: _A SUNSHINY DAY_]

Now we entered upon a very pleasant stretch of greenful country, seeming
doubly pleasant under the glamour of that soft sunshiny morning--a
morning upon which the atmosphere was permeated with light, causing the
grassy meadows and leafy trees to put on a rare, rich golden-green, as
though glowing with brightness. Only under special conditions of weather
and time shall you look upon scenery thus glorified. To slightly alter
Wordsworth, such is--

    The light that seldom is on sea or land,
    The consecration, and the Poet’s dream.

The blue sky overhead flecked with the lightest of summer clouds, the
buoyant air, the sun-steeped landscape, the general brightness and
cheerfulness of the day, impressed us with an indefinable but very real
joyousness and light-heartedness. We felt in truth, just then, that the
world was a very pleasant place to live in, and that especial corner of
it known as England the pleasantest part thereof. Then, as we drove
lazily on half lost in the luxury of day-dreaming--a very lotus-eaters’
land it seemed to be that soft and slumberous morning--some chance
drifting of thought called to mind William Hazlitt’s remarks anent a
walking tour, a recreation in which he delighted: “Give me,” says he,
connoisseur of good things that he was, “the clear blue sky over my
head, and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and
a three hours’ march to dinner ... then I laugh, I leap, I sing for
joy.” Well, we could not readily run, nor yet leap, as we were driving
and in a quiet mood moreover, neither did we sing for joy; not that we
took our pleasures sadly, but rather for the hour did we delight in a
drowsy progress soothed into untold rest by the peace-bestowing quietude
that prevailed all around: our happiness was too real to need any
outward display, which but too often disturbs the deep repose of
absolute content. Such a sensation of inward satisfaction with oneself
and one’s surroundings comes not every day, not even with searching
after, but when it comes it makes one thankfully realise the full
meaning of--

                  that blessed mood
    In which the burden of the mystery,
    In which the heavy and the weary weight
    Of all this unintelligible world,
    Is lightened.

Uffington, the first village on our way, proved to be a remarkably
picturesque one, clean and neat, with solid stone-built cottages, some
roofed with homely thatch, others with gray stone slabs, and all looking
pictures of contentment--let us hope

[Illustration: A QUIET COUNTRY ROAD.]

[Sidenote: _“GENUINE ENGLISH BRANDY!”_]

it was not only looking! Soon after this we reached a roadside inn with
a swinging sign-board that proclaimed it to be “The Tennyson’s Arms,”
where we also learnt that we could quench our thirst with “strong ales.”
This somehow called to mind another notice we saw at a country “public”
elsewhere to this effect: “Ales and spirits sold here; also genuine
English brandy.” The last item was distinctly novel! “The Tennyson’s
Arms” reminded us that we were in the county that gave the great
Victorian poet birth.

Next we came to Tallington, another clean and picturesque village: two
desirable qualities that unhappily do not always go together. There we
stopped to sketch and photograph a large stone-built pigeon-house that
would hold a little army of birds, which stood in an old farmyard; a
fierce-looking bull bellowing a loud disapproval of our
proceedings--across a strong high fence.

Beyond Tallington we somehow got off our road and found ourselves in the
remote and sleepy hamlet of Barholm, an uninteresting spot. On the tower
of the church here, however, about half-way up, we observed a stone slab
with a rather quaint inscription thereon that we made out, with some
difficulty, to be--

    Was ever such a thing
    Since the Creation
    A new steeple built
    In time of vexation ... 1648.

Then by cross-country crooked ways we reached Market Deeping, a sleepy,
decayed little town, whose first name is now a misnomer, as the market
is no more. The low-lying level country all around here, we learnt, was
under water during the great flood of 1880, when the corn-fields were so
flooded that only the tops of the ears of grain showed, and the ducks
swam three to four feet above what is now dry land--a great event in
local annals that even now affords a subject for local gossip. Such
notable occurrences give the rural folk a time to reckon from, more to
their liking than any date. “It were the year after the big flood,” or
“Three years afore the flood,” and so forth, are the remarks that may
frequently be heard. To a stranger in these parts, unaware of past
happenings, it sounds curious to listen to some such saying as this: “I
minds my father telling me, who died just afore the flood,” for to the
average stranger “the flood” suggests the Biblical one, and that was
some time ago now!

From Market Deeping to Deeping St. James--another old decayed town that
looks as out-of-the-world and forsaken as though nothing would ever
happen again there--was but a short distance, our road following the
bends of the winding river Welland to our right, the air blowing
refreshingly cool on our faces from the gliding water. So picturesque
was the river-side with bordering old trees, cottages, and buildings,
tumbling weir, which made a pleasing liquid melody on the quiet air, and
wooden foot-bridge, that we were tempted to stop a while and sketch it.
At Deeping St. James we noticed as we passed by its grand old church,
whose dusky and crumbling walls tell the tale of the long centuries it
has bravely weathered. Near to this ancient fane, in a wide space where
three roads meet, stands a market cross apparently reconstructed from
old material, presumably that of the fine Perpendicular Cross that is
recorded to have stood somewhere here in past days.

[Sidenote: _SECRET CHAMBERS_]

Our antiquarian friend at Stamford had told us that shortly after
leaving “the Deepings” we should pass close to the roadside an ideal old
manor-house with a gateway-house in front, and having mullioned windows,
courtyard, great hall, oak screen, with quaint and characteristic
architectural details, that made it a most interesting place. “You
_must_ see it,” he exclaimed after enlarging rapturously upon its rare
beauties: a skeleton, he further informed us, had recently been found in
the roof there, supposed to be that of a man stowed away and starved in
a hiding-hole--without which advantage no old home of any pretensions
was considered complete. Strange to say, even only the other day an
architect of standing confided to me that more than once recently he had
been called upon to provide a secret chamber in large houses he was
employed to design: the real reason for this curious demand it would be
interesting to know. I have seen quite a modern country house with a
well-planned secret hiding-place, and the amount of ingenuity displayed
in the contriving of this excited my utmost admiration. But why such
things in the close of the nineteenth century?

The charming word-pictures of this old home, within and without, had
raised both our expectations and curiosity. “You cannot possibly miss
it,” we had been assured; nevertheless we did so most successfully, much
to our regret and disappointment; in fact, to own the truth, we did not
so much as obtain even a glimpse of it. This was exceedingly provoking;
indeed, the roads about were very puzzling: they were very lonely also,
for we never came across a soul of whom to ask the way. The country was
a dead level and the hedges were high, so that we could not see much
beyond the roadway; it was like being in a maze, the point being to find
the old manor-house. Then it struck us as being rather a poor joke to
say that we could not possibly miss it! Could we not? Why, we did so
quite easily! Then we remembered that we had been told at Stamford that
we should have to drive through the village of Peakirk to get to
Crowland, and that we could not by any chance get there without so
doing. But somehow again we managed to accomplish the impossible, for we
eventually got to Crowland, but we never went through Peakirk or any
other village. The state of affairs was this, that we had lost our way,
there was no one about to put us right, sign-posts we looked for in
vain, or if we found one it was past service: so we simply drove
eastwards as far as we could, trusting to fate. Fortunately the day was
fine, and time was not pressing; indeed, we rather enjoyed the
delightful uncertainties of our position. We presumed that we should
arrive somewhere at last, and that was enough for us. There is a sort of
fascination in being lost at times--otherwise why do people go into
mazes.

[Sidenote: _ANCIENT LANDMARKS_]

Just about here, it must be confessed, our map failed us; indeed, I am
inclined to think that it omitted some of the roads altogether: quite
possibly the engraver may have confused them with the river or the
innumerable dykes that intersect the land in every direction. The more
we studied the map the more confused we became, till we folded it up and
put it carefully away, lest it should cause us to use bad language. A
map that fails, just when you most need its guidance, what a
temper-trying thing it is! However, a gentleman we met later on during
our tour had something more temper-trying to contend with: it appeared
that he started out touring in a motorcar, and the thing broke down
utterly, on an unsheltered stretch of road in the midst of a drenching
thunderstorm, so that he had to beg the loan of a horse from a farmer to
get the machine housed. To make the matter worse, some of the people
thought it a matter to laugh over, to see a horse lugging the helpless
motor along; but remembering that horses sometimes go lame on a journey
(though whilst touring we have never been delayed by such a mishap), we
sympathised with our fellow-wayfarer.

Before we put our map away, however, a close scrutiny of it revealed to
us two spots marked with a cross, and after each cross the legends
respectively of “Kenulph’s Stone” and “St. Guthlak’s Cross.” The former
of these was one of the four boundary stones of “the halidome” of the
Abbey, and may still be found by the side of the Welland; the broken
shaft of the latter, with curious lettering thereon, is also to be seen
at Crowland. According to learned antiquaries the lettering forms the
following Latin inscription:--“_Aio hanc petram Guthlacvs habet sibi
metam._”




CHAPTER IX

     A land of dykes--Fenland rivers--Crowland Abbey--A unique
     triangular bridge--Antiquaries differ--A mysterious statue--A
     medieval rhyme--A wayside inscription--The scenery of the
     Fens--Light-hearted travellers--Cowbit--A desolate spot--An
     adventure on the road--A Dutch-like town.


So we drove on till the tall hedgerows ceased and the country became
more open and assumed a wilder aspect: narrow dykes or ditches now
divided the fields instead of the familiar fences, so that our eyes
could range unimpeded over the wide landscape. Then presently, as we
proceeded, a high and long grass-grown embankment came into view, right
in front of us, and so our prospect ahead was suddenly shut in, reduced
from miles to yards! Approaching close to this embankment, we found that
our road turned sharply to the left and ran immediately below and
alongside of it. Here we pulled up and scrambled to the top of the steep
bank, just “to see what was on the other side.” The mystery of the vast
earthwork was solved: it was no Brobdingnagian railway scheme, but an
earthwork constructed to keep the river Welland in bounds when flooded,
though just then the river flowed sluggishly along, deep down below its
high-banked sides, as innocent-looking a stream as could well be
imagined.

One striking peculiarity of the Fenland rivers is that they are mostly
held in thus by banks and are not allowed, as English rivers generally
are, the liberty to meander about at their own sweet will; for in these
parts the primary use of a river appears to be to do duty as a mighty
drainage dyke, and this curbing of wilful nature gives such rivers an
exceedingly artificial and somewhat tame look. Quaint to English eyes is
it to observe these great river-banks standing high above the
surrounding country and highways, for often, for convenience of
construction, do the roads follow the course of the streams and
water-ways. Well is this division of Lincolnshire called “Holland” or
“Holland in England,” as some maps have it. Indeed, this mighty level
land, now smiling with yellow corn-crops and rich green pastures, was
erst a swampy waste, more water than land; fit only to be the home of
wildfowl and coarse fish, till sundry Dutch engineers undertook to
reclaim it, importing their own countrymen to assist in the task. We
were told by a Lincolnshire man that several of the Dutch workmen never
returned home, but settled and married in the new “Holland in England”
that their labours had helped to create; furthermore, we were told that
a goodly number of purely Dutch names still existed in the county.

After following along and below the embankment for a mile or more, our
road took to itself a sudden whim and boldly mounted to the top of the
bank which was wide enough to drive upon, and from our elevated position
we had a space-expressing prospect over a level country, reaching all
round to the long, low circling line of the bounding horizon. Though we
could not have been raised much above sea-level, still I have climbed
high mountains for a far inferior view. It is not the height one may be
above a scene that gives the observer therefrom the best impression of
it; indeed one may easily be elevated too far above scenery to
appreciate it properly. A bird’s-eye view of a landscape is not the one
an artist would select to paint; there is such a thing as a picturesque
and an unpicturesque way of looking on an object. Sometimes, truly,
scenery has been painted as a bird sees it, for the sake of novelty; but
novelty is not synonymous with beauty: they may join hands at times, but
as a rule they are utter strangers one to another.

[Sidenote: _DIFFICULT DRIVING_]

Then as we drove slowly and carefully on--for there were no fences to
the road on either side and it was not over safe to approach too near
the edges, or we might have been precipitated into the river on one
hand, or on to the fields below on the other, either of which events
would have brought our outing to a sudden termination--as we drove thus
cautiously on, the one remaining tower and great vacant archway of
Crowland’s lonely abbey came into sight, standing out a tender
pearly-gray mass against the sunlit sky: in all the ocean of greenery
round about there was nothing else in sight that raised itself
noticeably above the general level.

There was something very impressive in this first view of the ancient
fane, rising in crumbling yet solemn majesty out of the ever-green world
below; a poem in stone, laden with ancient legend and fraught with
misty history. It was a scene for a pilgrim, pregnant with peacefulness,
and as lovely as a dream. Yet how simple was the prospect--a gray and
ruined abbey, a silent world of green suffused with faint sunshine that
filtered through the thin clouds above! Below us and before us stretched
the river gleaming for miles between its sloping banks, winding away
towards the picturesque pile of ancient devotion in curving parallels
that narrowed toward the distant horizon to a mere point; and this
describes all that was before us!

After the abbey’s pathetic ruins, beautiful with the beauty of decay,
what most struck us was the sense of solitude, silence, and space in our
surroundings. On every side the level Fenland stretched broad as the
sea, and to the eye appearing almost as wide and as free; and from all
this vast lowland tract came no sound except the hardly to be
distinguished mellow murmuring of the wind amongst the nearer sedges and
trees. The river flowed on below us in sluggish contentment without even
an audible gurgle; no birds were singing, and, as far as we could see,
there were no birds to sing; and in the midst of this profound stillness
our very voices seemed preternaturally loud. There are two such things
as a cheerful silence and a depressing silence; the difference between
these two is more to be felt than described: of course all silence is
relative, for such a thing as absolute silence is not to be found in
this world; but the quietude of the Fens, like that of the mountain-top,
simulates the latter very successfully. The thick atmosphere about us
had the effect of subduing sounds doubtless, whilst it held the light,
as it were, in suspense, and magnified and mystified the distance. The
profound quietude prevailing suggested to us that we were travelling
through an enchanted land where all things slept--a land laid under some
mighty magic spell.

[Sidenote: _A DISPUTED SPELLING_]

As we proceeded along our level winding way, with the river for silent
company, the outline of the ruined abbey gradually increased in size,
and presently we found ourselves in the remote out-of-the-world village
of Crowland--or Croyland as some writers have it; but I understand that
certain antiquaries who have studied the subject declare that the latter
appellation is quite wrong, and as they may be right I accept their
dictum and spell it Crowland with my map, though, authorities and map
aside, I much prefer Croyland as the quainter title.

The inhabitants appear to spell the name of their village indifferently
both ways. One intelligent native, of whom we sought enlightenment, said
he did not care “a turn of the weathercock” which way it was spelt,
which was not very helpful; but we were grateful for the expression “a
turn of the weathercock,” as it was fresh to us. He further remarked,
apropos of nothing in our conversation, “You might as well try to get
feathers from a fish as make a living in Crowland; and the people are so
stupid, as the saying goes, ‘they’d drown a fish in water.’” Manifestly
he was not in love with the place. He did not even think much of the old
abbey: “It’s very ruinous,” was his expression thereof.

Crowland is a thoroughly old-world village; I know no other that so well
deserves the epithet: its gray-toned cottages, grouped round the decayed
and time-rent fane, save the ruins from utter desolation. Crowland
impressed us as a spot that exists simply because it has existed: like
the abbey, it looks so old that one can hardly imagine it was ever new.
It is--

    A world-forgotten village,
      Like a soul that steps aside
    Into some quiet haven
      From the full rush of tide.
    A place where poets still may dream,
      Where the wheels of Life swing slow;
    And over all there hangs the peace
      Of centuries ago.

Crowland village, apart from its ruined abbey, is quaint rather than
beautiful; it appeals to the lover of the past perhaps more than to the
lover of the picturesque. We found there a primitive and clean little
inn where we stabled our horses and procured for ourselves a simple, but
sufficient, repast that was served in a tiny parlour. Whilst waiting for
our meal to be prepared, having no guide-book, we consulted our
_Paterson’s Roads_ to see if it gave any particulars of the place, and
this is what we discovered: “Crowland, a place of very remote antiquity,
particularly interesting to the antiquary on account of the ruins of its
once extensive and splendid abbey, and its singular triangular-shaped
bridge, is now reduced to the size of a large village that possesses
little more than the ruins of its former

[Sidenote: _THE ISLE OF CROWLAND_]

splendour. The chief existing remains of the abbey are the skeleton of
the nave of the conventual church, with parts of the south and north
aisles; the latter of which is covered over, pewed, and fitted up as a
parish church. The triangular bridge in the middle of the town may be
looked upon as one of the greatest curiosities in Britain, if not in
Europe; it is of stone, and consists of three pointed arches springing
from as many abutments that unite their groins in the centre....
Crowland being so surrounded by fens is inaccessible, except from the
north and east, in which directions the road is formed by artificial
banks of earth, and from this singular situation it has been, not
inaptly, compared to Venice.” I have again quoted from this old and
famous road-book, which was as familiar to our forefathers as “Bradshaw”
is to us, because it shows the sort of combination of road-book and
guide that the pre-railway traveller was provided with, all England and
Wales being included in one thick volume. Paterson’s accounts of famous
spots and places of interest are not perhaps so learned or long as those
of the modern hand-book, but they are possibly sufficient, and brevity
is an advantage to the tourist who desires to arrive quickly at his
information.

In olden days it would seem that the spot whereon Crowland now stands
was one of the many Fen islands, consisting of comparatively dry and
firm soil that rose above the general level of the moist lowlands, or,
to be more exact, a wilderness of shallow waters--a district described
by Smiles as “an inland sea in winter, and a noxious swamp in summer”;
but so slight is the rise of the land that to the superficial observer
it scarcely seems to rise at all. Here--on this “Isle of Crowland”--as
it was formerly called in company with other similar islands, such as
the better-known “Isle of Ely”--the old monks built their abbey, remote
and fengirt from the outer world, only to be approached at first by
boats, and, in long years after also, by a solitary raised causeway
frequently under water and nearly always unsafe and untravellable in
winter. The problem to me is how ever all the stone required for the
building was secured. Presumably most of it was brought down the Welland
from Stamford; but what a long and laborious task the carrying of it
must have been. Still, the problem sinks into insignificance like that
of Stonehenge, for all authorities on this mysterious monument of
antiquity agree that the nearest spot to Salisbury Plain from which the
igneous rocks that compose the inner circle could come, would be either
Cornwall or North Wales! An effective word-picture of the early
monastery is given in Kingsley’s _Hereward the Wake_ which I take the
liberty to quote, though he describes the building as being chiefly of
timber, but the first historic record declares that it was “firmly built
of stone.” Thus, then, Kingsley writes: “And they rowed away for
Crowland ... and they glided on until they came to the sacred isle, the
most holy sanctuary of St. Guthlac and his monks.... At last they came
to Crowland minster, a vast range of high-peaked buildings founded on
piles of oak and alder driven into the fen, itself built almost entirely
of timber from the Bruneswold; barns, granaries, stables, workshops,
strangers’ hall, fit for the boundless hospitality of Crowland;
infirmary, refectory, dormitory, library, abbot’s lodgings, cloisters;
with the great minster towering up, a steep pile, half wood, half stone,
with narrow round-headed windows, and leaden roofs; and above all the
great wooden tower, from which on high-days chimed out the melody of the
seven famous bells, which had not their like in English land.” So minute
is the detailed description of that which was such a long time off that
one is almost tempted to wonder how Kingsley knew all this.

[Sidenote: _A TRIANGULAR BRIDGE_]

Leaving our little inn we first inspected the exceedingly quaint
triangular bridge that stands in the main thoroughfare--a thoroughfare
without any traffic it appeared to us, nor did we see where any future
traffic was to come from. This structure is stated to be positively
unique. Apart from its uncommon form, it certainly has a curious
appearance to-day, as the roadway below is dry, and the “three-way
bridge,” as it is locally called, has much the meaningless look that a
ship would have stranded far inland. This quaint structure consists of
three high-pitched half arches, at equal distances from each other, that
meet at the top. The way over the bridge is both narrow and steep, so
that manifestly it could only have been intended for pedestrians.

Much good ink has been spilt by antiquaries and archæologists anent the
peculiar form of the bridge, and different theories have been put
forward to solve this enigma in building: some authorities having
declared their belief that it was a mere freak of the monks indulged in
from pure eccentricity; others reason that it was intended to support a
high cross, but surely a bridge would hardly have been built as a
foundation for this? And it is so manifestly a bridge complete in
itself, though novel in design, nor does there appear to me to be room
for the base of an important cross on the apex of the arches where alone
it could come. It is verily an archæological _pons asinorum_. Personally
I find a difficulty in subscribing to either the freak or the cross
theory; indeed, a more reasonable solution of the puzzle presents itself
to me as one who does not look for out-of-the-way causes. It seems
possible, rather should I say highly probable, that when the bridge was
built, in the days before the drainage of the Fens, a stream may have
flowed past here, and it may have been joined by another Y fashion. To
cross these streams where they both met to the three points of dry
ground would entail a triangular bridge, and the monks were equal to the
occasion! The only fault I can find with this theory is that it is so
simple! Shortly after writing this, in looking over an old portfolio of
pictures, I chanced upon a rather crude, but fairly faithful, engraving
of this very bridge. The work was not dated, but I judged it to be of
the late seventeenth or of the early eighteenth century, a pure guess on
my part. However, it is interesting to note that this ancient engraving
showed two streams flowing under the bridge precisely as suggested. I
merely mention the fact, though it proves really nothing, for the
engraver or artist may easily have added the water, imagining that it
ought to be there. Here again the advantage of photography is apparent,
for the lens has no bias, and if it seldom lends itself to the
picturesque, at least it does not invent accessories.

[Sidenote: _A STATUE ASTRAY_]

On the parapet at the foot of the bridge is a mutilated and weather-worn
statue, having apparently a crown on its head and a globe in its hand.
An absurd local tradition declares this to be intended for Cromwell
holding a ball. Why it should be fathered on to the Protector is beyond
my understanding; it is more than probable that it existed centuries
before he was born. Looking sideways at the figure it is noticeably
thin, and was manifestly only intended to be seen from the front. One
may therefore, I think, reasonably conclude that it originally came from
a niche in the abbey, for it is quite out of place on the bridge, and
could never have properly belonged to it. Most probably, judging from
similar old sculptures, it was intended for our Lord, and had place in
the centre of the pediment over the west front of the abbey, a portion
of the building that has now disappeared. Some antiquaries, however,
maintain that it is intended for King Ethelbald, the founder of the
monastery; this would be a plausible enough suggestion but for the fact
that this king is already represented amongst the statues that still
adorn the abbey.

The mouldings, ribs, and vaultings of the arches indicate the date of
the present bridge to be about the middle of the fourteenth century. It
is worthy of note how readily an archæologist may determine the
approximate date of an ancient building by its style, even, if needs be,
by a small portion of its carvings; but what will the archæologists of
centuries hence be able to make of our present jumble of all periods? a
mixture of past forms from which the meaning and true spirit have fled.
Indeed, a certain famous English architect once boasted, I have been
told, that he made such an excellent copy of an Early English building,
even to the working of the stones roughly, in reverent imitation of the
original, that he gave it as his opinion that, in the course of a
century or two, when the new building had become duly time-toned,
weather-stained, and the stone-work crumbled a little here and there, no
future antiquary would be able to distinguish it from a genuine Early
English structure, unless possibly by its better state of preservation.
Alas! the nineteenth century has no specially distinguishing style, save
that of huge hotels and railway stations! Our most successful
ecclesiastical edifices are but copies of various medieval examples. We
can copy better than we can create! A new architectural style worthy of
the century has yet to be invented, and it appears as though--in spite
of much striving after--the century will pass away without such an
achievement.

Then we made our way to the ruined abbey in the reverent spirit of an
ancient pilgrim, although in the further spirit of this luxurious
century our pilgrimage was performed with ease on wheels, and not
laboriously on foot. The most picturesque and interesting part of this
fane of ancient devotion is the beautiful west front, glorious even in
ruin, with its elaborate decorations, its many statues standing, as
erst, each in its niche, its great window, now a mighty void, shaftless
and jambless, and its graceful pointed Gothic doorway below. An
illustration of this portion of the abbey is given with this chapter.
The other portions of the building are of much archæological interest,
but not so statelily picturesque, nor can any drawing in black and white
suggest the wonderful wealth of weather-tinting that the timeworn
masonry has assumed. The summer suns and winter storms of unremembered
years have left their magic traces upon the wonderful west front of this
age-hallowed shrine, tinging it with softest colouring varying with
every inch of surface!

[Sidenote: _RESTORERS OLD AND NEW_]

Within the ancient nave now open to the sky, where grows the lank, rank
grass under foot in place of the smooth inlaid pavement often trod by
sleek abbot, and meek or merry monk, we observed the base of a
Perpendicular pillar round which the earth had been excavated,
apparently to show the foundation, and we noticed that this was composed
of various old carved stones of an earlier period of architecture,
presumably when the abbey was undergoing a medieval restoration or
rebuilding; plainly proving, as is well known, that the builders of the
past did not hold their predecessors’ works so very sacred, and to a
certain extent the modern restorer would be justified in quoting this
fact in extenuation of his doings, or misdoings, “What is sauce for the
goose is sauce for the gander” surely? Only those medieval restorers
sinned so magnificently, and the modern restorer, as a rule, sins so
miserably! From the medieval reconstructor to the restorer of the
Churchwarden era is a vast gulf. It would be an archæological curiosity
and an object lesson in ecclesiastical construction if we could have
preserved for our study and edification a church showing all the varying
periods of architecture, from the crude Saxon and stern Norman to that
of to-day!

Reluctantly we left Crowland’s old ruined abbey that stands alone in
crumbling, dusky majesty, as though solemnly musing over the chances and
changes of its chequered life’s long history. This remote and hoary
pile, surrounded by the wild waste of watery fens, impressed us with an
undefinable feeling of mystery and melancholy--a mystery that had to do
with the past, and a melancholy that had to do with the present. No
other ruin has impressed us quite in the same way, but then Crowland
Abbey has a striking individuality seen from near or afar; it is utterly
unlike any other spot, and from every point of view forms a most
effective picture. Time has fraught its ancient walls with meaning, and
the rare dower of antiquity, the bloom of centuries is gathered over
them all--a bloom that has beautified what man and age have left of the
former hallowed sanctuary. Now a solemn peacefulness broods incumbent
over Crowland’s solitary tower, broken arches, and decaying masonry. No
more, as in the days of old, at evensong when the silent stars come out,
does the belated fisherman stop his skiff awhile by the side of the
inland isle, to listen to the sweet chanting of the monks, mingling with
the organ’s

[Illustration: CROWLAND ABBEY.]

[Sidenote: _CROWLAND ABBEY_]

solemn thunder-tones. The poetry and the romance of the ancient faith
and days have departed, and the prosaic present strikes a purely
pathetic key--of things that have been and are no more! The ancient
abbey

                        in ruin stands lone in the solitude;
    The wild birds sing above it, and the ivy clings around,
    And under its poppies its old-time worshippers sleep sound:
    Relic of days forgotten, dead form of an _ancient_ faith,
    Haunting the light of the present, a vanished Past’s dim wraith!

           *       *       *       *       *

    And the winds wail up from the seaward, and sigh in the long grave grass
    A message of weltering tides, and of things that were and must pass.

Reluctantly, as I have said, we left this lonely Fenland fane, a legend
in stone: a dream of Gothic glory in its prime, and a thing of beauty in
decay; and beauty is a more precious possession than glory! Very
beautiful did the ancient ruin look as we took our farewell glance at
it, with the warm sun’s rays touching tenderly its gray-toned walls and
lightening up their century-gathered gloom, whilst the solemn shadows of
pillared recesses and deepset arches lent a mystic glamour to the pile,
as though it held some hidden secrets of the past there, not to be
revealed to modern mortals, all of which aroused our strongest
sympathies, or a feeling close akin thereto--for I know not for certain
whether mere inert matter can really arouse human sympathy, though I
think it can.

This wild and wide Fenland was anciently renowned for its many and
wealthy monasteries. A medieval rhyme has been preserved to us that
relates the traditional reputations these religious establishments
respectively had. Of this rhyme there are two versions, one is as
follows:--

    Ramsey, the bounteous of gold and of fee;
    Crowland, as courteous as courteous may be;
    Spalding the rich, and Peterborough the proud;
    Sawtrey, by the way, that poore abbaye,
        Gave more alms in one day
            Than all they.

The other version runs more fully thus:--

    Ramsey, the rich of gold and of fee,
    Thorney, the flower of many a fair tree,
    Crowland, the courteous of their meat and drink,
    Spalding, the gluttons, as all people do think,
    Peterborough, the proud, as all men do say:
    Sawtrey, by the way, that old abbey,
    Gave more alms in one day than all they.

From Crowland we decided to drive some nine and a half miles on to
Spalding, where we proposed to spend the night; or rather the map
decided the matter, for our choice of roads out of Crowland, unless we
went south, was limited to this one; it was a pure case of “Hobson’s
choice,” to Spalding we must go, and thither we went. Mounting the
dog-cart once more we were soon in the open country; our road, like that
of the morning, was level and winding, with the far-reaching fens all
around, that stretched away through greens, yellows, russets, and grays
to a hazy horizon of blue. A short distance on our way by the roadside
we observed a large notice-board, that claimed our

[Sidenote: _A WAYSIDE RECORD_]

attention from its size, so we pulled up the better to examine it, and
found this legend plainly painted thereon:--

                              1000 Miles
                                  in
                              1000 Hours,
                         by Henry Girdlestone,
                           at the age of 56,
                           in the year 1844.

As, nowadays, people mostly travel by rail, this record of a past
performance is wasting its information in the wilderness for want of
readers, so I have been tempted to repeat the account of Mr. Henry
Girdlestone’s feat here.

Our road was an uneventful one; the scenery it provided was somewhat
monotonous, but there was a certain inexplicable fascination about its
monotony as there is in that of the sea. It had the peculiar quality of
being monotonous without being wearisome. As in our drive to Crowland,
what especially struck us in our drive therefrom was the sense of
silence, space, and solitude. Spread out around us were leagues upon
leagues of level land, like a petrified sea, that melted away
imperceptibly into a palpitating blueness in which all things became
blended, indistinct, or wholly lost. Leagues of grass lands and marshes,
splashed here and there with vivid colour, and enlivened ever and again
by the silvery gleam of still, or the sunlit sparkle of wind-stirred
water; its flatness accentuated, now and again, by a solitary uprising
poplar, or a lonely, lofty windmill--built high to catch every
wind--and these served to emphasise the general solitude: the
prevailing silence was made the more striking by the infrequent peevish
cry of some stray bird that seemed strangely loud upon the quiet air.

The scenery could not be called picturesque, yet it possessed the rarer
quality of quaintness, and it therefore interested us. In a manner it
was beautiful on account of its colour, and the sky-scape overhead was
grand because so wide, whilst it flooded the vast breadth of unshaded
land with a wealth of light. After all, let mountain lovers say what
they will, a flat land has its charms; it may not be “sweetly pretty,”
but it is blessed with an abundance of light, and light begets
cheerfulness; and its cloud-scapes, sunrises, and sunsets, that compel
you to notice them, are a revelation in themselves. A Dutch artist once
told me, when I was pointing out to him what I considered the paintable
qualities of the South Downs, that he honestly considered hills and
mountains a fraud, as they hid so much of the sky, which, to him,
appeared infinitely more beautiful and changeful both in form and
colour. “There is a fashion in scenery,” said he; “mountain lands have
been fortunate in their poets and writers; some day a poet or great
writer may arise who will sing or describe for us the little-heeded
beauties of the lowlands, and the hills will go out of fashion. The
public simply admire what they are told to admire.” If Ruskin had only
been born in the lowlands of Lincolnshire, then might we have had some
chapters in his works enlarging upon their peculiar beauties! Truly
Tennyson was born in Lincolnshire, but he was born in the Wolds
surrounded by woods and hills. Even so, Tennyson has not done for the
Wolds what Scott has done for the Scotch Highlands; the scenery of the
Wolds has its special charms, but it is no tourist-haunted land, yet
none the less beautiful on that account, and selfishly I am thankful
that there are such spacious beauty spots still left to us in England
unknown to, and unregarded by, the cheap-tripper. Let us hope that no
popular guide-book will be written about certain districts to needlessly
call his attention to them.

[Sidenote: _A NOVEL EXPERIENCE_]

This corner of England that we were traversing has an unfamiliar aspect
to the average Englishman; the buildings and people therein truly are
English, intensely English, but, these apart, the country looks strange
and foreign. It is a novel experience to drive for miles along an
embanked road looking down upon all the landscape, just as it is equally
curious, on the other hand, to drive along a road below an embanked
river! Keen and fresh came the breezes to us from over the mighty fens,
for they were unrestrained even by a hedge; pleasantly refreshing and
scented were they with the cool odours of marsh flowers, plants, and
reeds. The fields being divided by dykes and ditches, in place of
hedges, the landscape gained in breadth, for the sweep of the eye was
not continually arrested by the bounding hedges that but too often cut
up the prospect of the English country-side, chess-board fashion.

At one spot low down to the right of our way was a swampy bit of
ground, half land, half water, if anything more water than land; here
tall reeds were bending and tossing about before the wild wind, and the
pools of water were stirred by mimic waves, and in the heart of all this
was a notice-board inscribed “Trespassers will be prosecuted”! Somehow
this simple and familiar warning in such a position brought to mind the
comic side of life and aroused much merriment, for who in the wide world
would wish to trespass there? We were in such good humour with ourselves
and all things that we were easily amused: our superabundance of health
begot a mirthful spirit readily provoked and difficult to damp. I verily
believe that when trifles went wrong on the journey, which by the way
they very seldom did, then we were the merriest, as though to show that
nothing could depress us. I remember on a former tour that we got caught
in a heavy storm of rain when crossing an open moor; the storm came up
suddenly from behind and took us quite by surprise, so that we got
pretty well wet before we could get our mackintoshes out; shelter was
there none, and the result was that, after a couple of hours’ driving
along an exposed road, we arrived at a little country inn positively
drenched through to the skin, the water running off the dogcart in
streams, and all things damp and dripping, yet in spite of our sorry
plight we felt “as jolly as a sandboy,” and could not restrain our
laughter at the dismal picture we presented as we drove into the
stable-yard; indeed, we treated the matter as a huge joke, and I thought
to myself, “Now if only Charles Keene were here to sketch us arriving
thus, what an excellent subject we should make for a _Punch_ picture
with the legend below ‘The pleasures of a driving tour!’” So excellent
did the joke appear to us that we had changed our saturated clothing and
put on dry things, and had warmed ourselves before a roaring wood fire
which the kind-hearted landlady had lighted for us, and had further
refreshed ourselves with the best the house could provide, before our
merry spirits quieted down. So it took some time to quiet them down!

[Sidenote: _A LEANING TOWER_]

Now this digression has taken us to the village of Cowbit, a dreary,
forsaken-looking place, desolate enough, one would imagine, to disgust
even a recluse. Here we noticed the dilapidated church tower was leaning
very much on one side, owing doubtless to the uncertain foundation
afforded by the marshy soil; indeed, it leaned over to such an extent as
to suggest toppling down altogether before long, so much so that it gave
us the unpleasant feeling that it might untowardly collapse when we were
there. It may be that the tower will stand thus for years; all the same,
did I worship in that fane I feel sure I should ever be thinking rather
about the stability of the fabric than of the prayers or of the sermon!

Leaving this forsaken spot--where we saw neither man, woman, nor child,
not even a stray dog or odd chicken about to lessen its forlorn look--a
short way ahead we discovered that our way was blocked by a broken-down
traction engine, a hideous black iron monster of large proportions,
that stood helplessly right in the very centre of the road, so that it
was extremely doubtful if there were sufficient room left for us to pass
by; and if we failed to do this and our wheels went over the edge of the
embankment we were on, which was fenceless on both sides, the dog-cart
and horses might very probably follow suit. Some men were busily
hammering and tinkering at the engine; they said that she had broken
down an hour ago, and they had not been able to get her to move since,
but fortunately there had been no traffic coming along, and we were the
first party to arrive on the scene. All of which was very entertaining
and informative, but not very helpful as to how we were to proceed. Did
they think we could possibly get by? Well, they did not know, they
hardly thought so; but they would measure the width of our carriage and
the width of the roadway left. This being duly done, it was discovered
that there was just room, but not even the proverbial inch to spare.
Thereupon we naturally concluded that the margin for safety was
insufficient! Here was a pleasant predicament to be in! We could not
well go back; on the other hand the men confessed that they had no idea
when they would be able “to get the thing to work again.” The steam was
up, but when turned on the iron monster snorted, creaked, and groaned,
but resolutely refused to budge. “Something has given way, and we be
trying to mend it” was the only consolation offered us, beyond the fact
that they had sent a man over to Spalding for help, but when he would
return they

[Sidenote: _A DILEMMA_]

did not know; “It were certainly bad luck that we should have been right
in the middle of the road when she gave out, but you see we never
expected anything of the kind.” It was an unfortunate position of
affairs; if we decided to attempt to drive by, and our horses shied or
swerved ever so little in the attempt, a serious accident was almost a
certainty; so, after considering the matter well, a happy, if
troublesome, way out of the difficulty occurred to us: this was to
unharness both horses and lead them past the obstructing engine, then to
wheel the dog-cart after as best we could. Just as we had decided to do
this, the monster gave another spasmodic snort or two and began to move
in a jerky fashion, only to break down again, then the men set to work
once more a-hammering. How long would this go on? we wondered. However,
the few yards that the engine had managed to move was to one side, which
gave us a little more room to pass, whereupon, acting under a sudden
impulse, we whipped the horses up, and taking tight hold of the reins
dashed safely by, but it was “a touch and go” affair; our horses did
swerve a trifle, and we just missed bringing our tour to a conclusion on
the spot, but “all’s well that ends well,” and “a miss is as good as a
mile!”

After this little episode we had a peaceful progress on to Spalding
undisturbed by further adventure. The approach to this essentially
old-world-looking town from the Crowland direction alongside the river
Welland--which is here embanked and made to run straight, canal fashion,
and has shady trees and grassy margins on either side--is exceedingly
Dutch-like and very pleasant. Few English towns have so attractive an
approach; it gave us a favourable impression of the place at once--so
imperceptibly the country road became the town street, first the trees,
then the houses. Spalding is a place that seems more of a natural
growth, an integral part of the scenery, so in harmony is it therewith,
rather than a conglomeration of houses built merely for man’s
convenience. Such charmingly old-fashioned, prosperous, but delightfully
unprogressive towns are not to be met with every day, when the ambition
of most places appears to be more or less a second-hand copy of London;
and at a sacrifice of all individuality they strive after this
undesirable ideal. How refreshing is a little originality in this world,
that grows more sadly commonplace and colourless year by year! Alas! we
live in an age of civilised uniformity, an age that has given us
railways and ironclads in far-off Japan, and tramway lines and French
_tables d’hôte_ in the very heart of ancient Egypt! Soon the only ground
the unconventional traveller will have left to him will be the more
remote spots of rural England! It is far more primitive and picturesque
to-day than rural new America with its up-to-date villages lighted with
electricity, and stores provided with all the latest novelties of
Chicago or New York! Where will the next-century mortal find the rest
and repose of the past?

Driving into Spalding we noticed the ancient hostelry of the “White
Hart” facing the market

[Sidenote: “_HARPER YE HOST_”]

square, a hostelry that was ancient when the railways still were young,
and on the lamp that projected over the centre of this old house we
further noticed the quaint legend “Harper ye Host,” a conceit that
pleased us much. “A host must surely be one of the right sort thus to
proclaim himself,” we reasoned, “we will place ourselves under his
care”; so without more ado we drove beneath the archway into the
courtyard, and confidently handed our horses over to the ready ostler’s
charge, and sought for ourselves entertainment and shelter beneath the
sign of the “White Hart.”




CHAPTER X

     Spalding--“Ye Olde White Horse Inne”--An ancient hall and quaint
     garden--Epitaph-hunting--A signboard joke--Across the Fens--A
     strange world--Storm and sunshine--An awkward
     predicament--Brown--Birthplace of Hereward the Wake--A medieval
     railway station!--Tombstone verses.


We determined that we would devote the next morning to leisurely
exploring Spalding, armed with sketch-book and camera, for the ancient
town promised, from the glance we had of it whilst driving in, to
provide plenty of picturesque and quaint material for both pencil and
lens.

We had not to search long for a subject, for in less than five minutes
we came upon a tempting architectural bit in the shape of a past-time
inn, with a thatched roof, high gables, and dormer windows, whose
swinging signboard proclaimed it to be “Ye Olde White Horse Inne.” It
was a building full of a certain quiet character that was very
pleasing--a home-like and unpretentious structure whose picturesqueness
was the outcome of necessity, and all the more charming for its
unconsciousness.

Then wandering by the waterside we chanced upon a beautiful and ancient
house called Ayscough Hall, gray-gabled, time-toned, and weather-worn,
with a great tranquil garden of the old-fashioned sort

[Sidenote: _OLD GARDENS_]

in the rear, rejoicing in the possession of massive yew hedges, clipped
and terraced in the formally decorative manner that so delighted the
hearts and eyes of our ancestors, who loved to walk and talk and flirt
between walls of living green. In olden days the architect often planned
the garden as well as the house; so, as at Haddon Hall, Montacute, and
elsewhere, we frequently find the stone terrace forming an architectural
feature in the grounds, and immediately beyond this Nature trimmed,
tamed, and domesticated with prim walks and trees fantastically cut into
strange shapes. And what delightful retreats and pleasant pictures these
old formal gardens make: perhaps it would be well if nowadays the
architect of the house were employed to design the grounds that it will
stand in; but alas! this is not a home-building age, so only rarely is
the idea feasible--for does not the modern man generally buy his
“desirable residence” ready-made as he does his furniture, fitting into
it as best he may?

Upon inquiry we learnt that this charming old-world hall with its dreamy
garden, so eloquent of the past, had been purchased by the town for a
public park. Fortunate people of Spalding! And what a unique and
enjoyable little park it will make if it is only left alone and
preserved as it is; but if for a passing fad or fashion the landscape
gardener is ever let loose thereon, what havoc may be wrought under the
cuckoo-cry of improvement! Such old gardens are the growth of centuries;
money will not create them in less time, yet, sad to realise, they may
be destroyed in a few weeks or days! What the modern restorer is to an
ancient and beautiful church, so is the modern landscape gardener to the
quaintly formal old English garden.

The house itself appeared to be deserted and shut up, so that
unfortunately we were unable to obtain a glance at its interior. Some
portions of the building looked very old, possibly as early as the
fifteenth century, especially a large stone-mullioned window, filled--we
judged from the exterior view--with some interesting specimens of
ancient heraldic glass, but the other portions were of later date, and
signs of nineteenth-century modernising were not wanting. We asked a man
we saw if he knew how old the oldest part of the hall was, and he
honestly replied that he did not; “but it be a goodish bit older nor I.
You sees they don’t register the birth of buildings as they does babies,
so it’s difficult to find out how old they be.” Then the man chuckled to
himself, “You sees I’se a bit of a wit in my way,” but it was just what
we did not see; nevertheless we put on a conventional smile just to
please him, whereupon, in a confidential whisper, he informed us where
we could get “as good a glass of ale as is to be had in all
Lincolnshire, if not better, and I don’t mind a-showing you the way
there and drinking your very good health.” It is rather damping to think
how many of our conversations with rural folk have come to a similar
ending. “Why,” we rejoined in feigned surprise, “you look like a
teetotaler; you surely would not be seen drinking beer in a
public-house.” The air of mute astonishment that pervaded his features
was a study. “Well, I’m blest!”

[Sidenote: _A CHARACTER_]

he exclaimed, more in a tone of sorrow than of anger, “I’ve never been
taken for that before”--and thereupon he turned round and walked hastily
away with as much dignity as he could assume. Could it be that we had
hurt his feelings by our unfounded imputation, or could he possibly
think that we had made such a base insinuation for the mean purpose of
saving our twopence? However, we did not feel inclined to call after
him, so the incident closed. One does meet with curious characters on
the road--a remark I believe that I have made before. Then we again
turned our diverted attention to the old house, which pleased us from
the indefinable look it had of having seen an eventful and historic
past: one generation had done this, another had done that, one had
added, another had pulled down; so at least we read the story in stone.

Next we found our way by accident, not of set purpose, to the spacious
parish church, a much altered and enlarged edifice, unless our judgment
by appearances was at fault--a cathedral in miniature. Somehow, though
manifestly of considerable archæological interest, the fabric did not
appeal to us, but this may have been owing to our mood that day. The
interior is vast--but we do not worship mere vastness--and has the
peculiarity of possessing four aisles; two, instead of the usual one, on
each side. An enthusiastic antiquary, whom I afterwards met, declared to
me that Spalding church was one of the finest and most interesting in
the county, and jokingly remarked in a good-natured way that my not
finding it so proved that I was uninteresting. Well, I accept the
reproach, and cling to my own opinion! It is strange how one sometimes
takes a sudden dislike to a place or building as well as to a person,
for no reason that we can possibly assign to ourselves; and for my own
part, favourable or unfavourable, my first impression lasts. It is a
clear case of--

    I do not like thee, Dr. Fell--
    The reason why I cannot tell:
    But this I know, and know full well,
    I do not like thee, Dr. Fell.

Not being interested in the church, we wandered about the large and
grass-grown graveyard, and amidst the moss-encrusted and lichen-laden
tombstones, in search of any quaint epitaph that Time and man might have
spared, for I regret to say that the despoiling hand of religious
prudery is answerable for the deliberate destruction of sundry quaint
epitaphs. A flagrant case of this came under my notice on a previous
journey, when I learnt that the two concluding lines of a tombstone
inscription had been purposely erased as being profane. By fortunate
chance I was enabled, through a clergyman who had retained a copy of the
sinning lines, to rescue them from oblivion; though, to be perfectly
honest, I have to confess that the words of the obliterated lines were
given to me for the purpose of justifying their removal! However,
looking upon such things, as I ever endeavour to do, in the spirit of
the age that dictated them, the condemned lines appeared innocent enough
to me; but then, as a certain high church ecclesiastic once told me, in
his opinion, when curious old epitaphs were concerned, my charity was
“too wide, and covered too many sins.” Whether my charity be too wide or
not is a matter I do not care to discuss, but my readers may judge for
themselves, if they be so minded and care to take the trouble to refer
to a former work of mine, _Across England in a Dog-cart_, page 386.

[Sidenote: _GRAVEYARD LITERATURE_]

Our search in the churchyard at Spalding for any curious epitaphs was
unrewarded by any “finds”; we discovered nothing but dreary
commonplaces. Graveyard literature is becoming--has become, rather
should I say--very proper, very same, yet very sad. Somehow those quaint
old-time inscriptions appeal to me; when I read them I seem to
understand what manner of man lies sleeping below; they bring the dead
to life again, and rescue forgotten traits from total oblivion. It seems
to us now strange that our ancestors should have treated death in this
lighter strain, though perhaps not stranger than some of the coarse
jokes in carvings that the presumably devout monkish medieval sculptor
introduced into the churches of the period. Each age sees things from
its own standpoint, and I am inclined to think that we take both life
and death more seriously than our ancestors:--

    Each century somewhat new
      Is felt and thought of death--the problem strange
      With newer knowledge seems to change,
    It changes, as we change our point of view.
    And in this age when over much is known,
      When Science summons from the deep
      Dim past the centuries that sleep,
    When Thought is crowned for ruler, Thought alone,
      We gaze at Death with saddest eyes.

Soon, especially if man is to be allowed to help Time in the work of
obliteration, quaint and interesting epitaphs will only be discoverable
in books; perhaps better this than to be lost altogether, but I do not
like my epitaphs served thus; I prefer to trace them for myself direct
from the ancient tombstones, even though it entails a journey, time, and
trouble to do this, for then I know they are genuine. I have an uneasy
suspicion that the majority of clever and amusing epitaphs we find in
books never came from tombstones at all, but owe their existence solely
to the inventive faculties of various writers; I hope I am wrong, but my
hoping does not prove me so! As an example of what I mean, I was reading
a work the other day by a learned antiquary, in which I found quoted
quite seriously the following droll epitaph--

    Underneath this ancient pew
    Lieth the body of Jonathan Blue,
    His name was Black, but that wouldn’t do,

with the information that it existed in a church in Berkshire. Now this
really will not do, it is far too indefinite; I object to be sent
epitaph-hunting all over a whole county; it would surely be as easy to
give the name of the church as to state that it was somewhere “in
Berkshire,” which is suggestive of its being nowhere! Even when you know
the precise locality of the church wherein is a quaint epitaph, it is
not always easy to find the latter, as on one occasion I actually learnt
from the clerk that an inscription that I had come a long way specially
to see for myself and to copy, had been covered over and hidden by a
brand new organ! Matting you may move, even a harmonium, and I always do
on principle, as I once made an interesting discovery by so doing; but
an organ is a very different matter: not that I should have any scruples
under the circumstances in moving an organ, if I could!

[Sidenote: _A JOKING SIGN_]

From the church we strolled down the river-side, or as near to it as we
could, in search of sketchable bits--and shipping, for though some ten
miles inland (judging by our map), Spalding is a seaport, small, but
flourishing in its way; brigs and sloops, inconsiderable in size
according to modern commercial ideas, find their way thither, and these
are more profitable to the artist, if not to their owners, than huge
steamers and big iron vessels. Small sea-craft are always picturesque,
which is more than can be said of their larger brethren. On our way we
passed a public-house, its projecting sign had two men’s heads painted
thereon, with the title above, “The Loggerheads,” and below the legend,
“We be Loggerheads three,” a joke at the expense of the reader. It would
be interesting to learn the origin of this curious and uncommon sign. I
have consulted all the likely books in my library, but, though I find
allusions to it, I can discover no explanation thereof.

It was late in the afternoon before we made a start from Spalding;
exploring, sketching, and photographing, to say nothing of
epitaph-hunting or chatting with local folk, take up time, so our
morning slipped quietly away before we knew it, though we had made an
early beginning. As the time remaining was short, after a glance at our
map, we determined to drive on to Bourn, a twelve-mile stage, and to
remain there the night.

Since mid-day the sky had clouded over, whilst the barometer had dropped
considerably; the weather looked gray and gloomy, and the wind blew
gustily from the west. “You’ll have a storm,” prophesied the ostler,
“and it’s a wild, exposed road on to Bourn, right across the marshes,
and there’s no shelter on the way.” We smilingly thanked the ostler for
his information and his solicitude for our welfare, but all the same
proceeded on our stage, jokingly reminding him that we were composed of
“neither sugar nor salt.” So with this encouraging “set-off” we parted,
and soon found ourselves once more in the wide Fenland, with which our
road was on a level, neither above nor below, as generally prevails in
the district. Passing by a gray, stone-built, and picturesque old home,
some short distance off in the flat fields, and leaving behind the last
traces of Spalding in the shape of roadside villas and prim cottages, we
entered upon a lonesome stretch of country, dark and dank and dreary,
yet fascinating because so dreary, so foreign-looking, and so eerie!

Overhead, without a break, stretched the louring, dun-coloured sky; the
low-lying landscape around, as though in sympathy therewith, was all of
dull greens and grays, varied by long wide dykes and sedgy pools of a
dismal leaden hue. The wild wind blew chilly and fitfully, and made a
melancholy sighing sort of sound as it swept over the rank

[Illustration: A FENLAND HOME.]

reeds and coarse grasses, whilst it bent into a great curve the solitary
tall poplar that alone stood out in relief against the stormy sky--

    For leagues no other tree did mark
    The level waste, the rounding gray.

There was plenty of movement everywhere, for the strong breeze made
waves of the long lank grass, as it makes waves of the sea; but there
were no signs of life except for a few stray storm-loving seagulls that,
for reasons best known to themselves, were whirling about thus far
inland, uttering peevish cries the while, apparently as much out of
their element as a sailor of the old school ashore.

[Sidenote: _THE FENS_]

A strange, weird world this English Fenland seems to unfamiliar eyes,
especially when seen under a brooding sky; and there is a peculiar
quality of mystery, that baffles description and cannot be analysed, in
the deep blue-gray palpitating gloom that gathers over the Fenland
distances when they lie under the threatening shadow of some coming
storm. Under such conditions the scenery of the Fens is pronouncedly
striking, but even under ordinary circumstances a man can have but
little poetry in his soul who cannot admire its wild beauties, its vast
breadths of luxuriant greenery over which the eye can range unrestrained
for leagues upon leagues on every side, its space-expressing distances
and its mighty cloud-scapes, for the sky-scape is a feature in the
Fenland prospect not to be overlooked; in fact, I am inclined to think
that its sky scenery--if I may be allowed the term--is the finest and
most wonderful in the world. It is worth a long journey to the district
if only to behold one of its gorgeous sunsets, when you look upon a
moist atmosphere saturated with colour so that it becomes opalescent,
and the sinking sun seen through the vibrating air is magnified to twice
its real size as it sets in a world of melting rubies and molten gold:
from the western slopes of far-off California I have looked down upon
the sun dipping into the wide Pacific amidst a riot of colour, but
nothing like this! It is not always necessary to leave England in search
of the strange and beautiful; the more I travel abroad, the more I am
convinced of this!

It almost seemed to us, as we drove along, that somehow we must be
travelling in a foreign land, so un-English and unfamiliar did the
prospect appear! I have long studied the scenery of Mars through the
telescope, have in the silent hours of the night wandered thus over the
mighty, water-intersected plains of that distant planet, and had only
the vegetation of the Fens been red instead of green, we might in
imagination well have fancied ourselves touring in Mars! Truly this may
be considered a rather too far-fetched phantasy, but as Bernard Barton,
the East Anglian poet, says--

    There is a pleasure now and then, in giving
    Full scope to Fancy and Imagination.

Then suddenly, so suddenly as to be almost startling, one of those
scenic revelations and surprises that this singular land abounds in,
took place. Low down

[Sidenote: _A TRANSFORMATION_]

there came a long rift in the cheerless, gray, vapoury canopy above,
followed by a suspicion of warm light, after which slowly the round red
sun peeped forth embroidering the edges of the clouds around him with
fringes of fire, and sending forth throbbing trails of burning orange
everywhere over the sky; then the landscape below became reflective and
receptive, and was changed from grave to gay as though by magic, the
dull, leaden-hued waters of the stagnant dykes and dreary pools became
liquid gold all glowing with light and brightness, and the damp, dismal
swamp grasses were transformed into waving masses of translucent
yellow-green; the distance became a wonderfully pure transparent blue,
and colour, tender, rich, or glowing, was rampant everywhere: yet five
minutes had wrought this marvellous change from depressing gloominess to
cheerful gaiety! The English climate has its faults as well as its
virtues, but it cannot fairly be charged with monotony, nor does it ever
fail to interest the quiet observer. As we live in a land of such fine
and changeful sky-scapes, I wonder we do not study them a little more;
they are often as worthy of note as the scenery. Where would be the
beauty of most of Turner’s or Constable’s landscapes without their
skies? A well-known artist told me that a good sky was the making of a
picture, and that, as a matter of fact, he gave more time and study to
it than to any other part of his work. “I never miss,” said he, “when
out of doors making a sketch of a fine cloud effect, and I have found
these studies of the utmost value; you cannot invent clouds
successfully, whatever else you may do.” One day when I was looking at
a half-finished picture of his, and wondering why it had remained so
long in that condition, he exclaimed, in response to my inquiring
glance, “Oh! I’m waiting for a suitable sky!”

The last four or five miles of our road into Bourn was a perfectly
straight stretch, its parallel lines lessening as they receded till lost
in a point on the horizon--a grand object lesson in perspective! A road
level and direct enough to delight the heart of a railway engineer, with
everything plainly revealed for miles ahead and no pleasant surprises
therefore possible. I am afraid I am a little fastidious in the matter
of roads; I like a winding one, and within reasonable limits the more it
winds the better I like it, so that at every fresh bend before me, I am
kept in a state of delightful expectancy as to what new and probably
wholly unexpected beauty will be presented to my eyes: thus I am enticed
on and on from early morning till the evening, never disappointed and
never satiated.

On either side of our present road ran a wide dyke as usual by way of
fence, crossed by frequent bridges giving access to fields, footpaths,
and narrow by-roads. It appeared to us a very simple and easy matter for
a careless whip on a dark night to drive right into this dyke, which,
judging from the dark look of its water, was fairly deep; you need a
sober coachman for these open Fenland roads! Even a cyclist would be
wise to proceed with caution along them after sundown, or a sudden bath
in dirty water might be the result. Indeed, as

[Sidenote: _AN AMUSING INCIDENT_]

we drove on we observed that a poor cow had somehow managed to slip down
the steep bank into the dyke, and there she was swimming up and down it
apparently on the outlook for an easy spot to climb out, but her
struggles to gain a footing on the slippery earth were alas! in vain;
three men followed the unfortunate animal up and down, and at every
attempt she made to reach _terra firma_ they commenced prodding her
behind with long sticks and shouting violently, by way of encouragement,
we presumed; but prods and shouts were unavailing, the final result
always being that the cow slipped quietly down into the dyke again and
recommenced her swimming. Had we not felt sorry for the poor bewildered
creature we should have laughed outright, for there was something very
ludicrous about the whole proceeding. The men told us that they had been
“two mortal hours a-trying to get the daft beast out, but we bain’t no
forrader than when we begun. We shall have to go back home and get a
rope and tie it round her horns and haul her out.” Why they had not done
this long before when they found their other method of help was
unavailing I could not understand, nor could the men explain. How the
amusing episode ended I cannot say, as we felt we could not afford to
wait till the rope appeared.

At Bourn we found comfortable quarters at the Angel; this little market
town--described by Kingsley as lying “between the forest and the
Fen”--though clean and neat, is more interesting historically than
picturesquely. Bourn claims to be the birthplace of that Saxon patriot
Hereward the Wake, who may well be termed the hero of the Lowlands. How
is it, I wonder, that the daring deeds of Highlanders of all nations
appeal so much more to most poetic and prose writers, and to the
multitude generally, than the equally valiant achievements of the
Lowlanders? Was not the long struggle of the Dutch for freedom as heroic
and as worthy of laudatory song as that of the Swiss mountaineers?

The landlord of our inn pointed out to us the site of the castle of the
Wakes in a field not far from the market-place. “Some dungeons had been
discovered there many years ago,” we were informed, “but now there are
no remains of any masonry visible,” and we found it as the landlord
said. All that we observed on the spot were some grass-grown mounds,
manifestly artificial, and the traces of the moat. Close by is a large
pool of water, supplied by a never-failing spring that bubbles up from
below; this pool overflows into a wide stream “that goes right round the
town.” Kingsley describes the site as being “not on one of the hills
behind, but on the dead flat meadow, determined doubtless by the noble
fountain, bourn, or brunne, which rises among the earthworks, and gives
its name to the whole town. In the flat meadow bubbles up still the
great pool of limestone water, crystal clear, suddenly and at once; and
runs away, winter and summer, a stream large enough to turn many a mill,
and spread perpetual verdure through the flat champaign lands.”

What struck us, however, as being the most interesting feature in
Bourn--which though a very ancient town has an aggravating air of
newness

[Sidenote: _A HISTORIC MANSION_]

generally about it, even our little inn was quite modern--was its old
railway station. I must confess, at the same time, that I do not
remember ever having admired a railway station before for its beauty.
But this is, or was, not a modern railway station but a genuine
sixteenth-century one! I am writing seriously, let me explain the
mystery. When the line was being constructed it passed close alongside
of an ancient and charmingly picturesque Elizabethan mansion, known as
the Old Red Hall, which for a long while was the residence of the Digby
family, who were implicated in the Gunpowder Plot: it was here,
according to tradition, that the Guy Fawkes conspiracy was originated in
1604. The intention was, I understand, in due course to pull this
ancient structure down and to erect a station on its site. But sundry
antiquaries, learning what was proposed to be done, arose in arms
against such a proceeding and prevailed; so for once I am glad to record
that the picturesque scored in the struggle with pure utilitarianism. A
rare victory! The old-time building, often painted by artists and
appearing in more than one Academy picture, was happily spared from
destruction and was converted into a very quaint, if slightly dark and
inconvenient railway station: its hall doing duty as a booking-office,
one of its mullion-windowed chambers being turned into a waiting-room,
another into a cloakroom, and so forth. Thus matters remained until a
year or so ago, when a brand new station, convenient and ugly, was
constructed a little farther along the line, and the old house, one of
the finest remaining Elizabethan red-brick mansions in the kingdom,
became the stationmaster’s home--happy stationmaster! So it was that
until quite recently Bourn boasted the unique possession of a medieval
railway station!

Passing Bourn church on the way back to our inn we observed a notice
attached to the door, of a tax for Fen drainage and the maintenance of
the dykes, a shilling an acre being levied for this purpose “and so on
in rateable proportion for any less quantity.” This called to our mind
the ceaseless care that is needed to prevent these rich lands from
flooding and becoming mere unprofitable marshes again, and the amount of
the tax does not seem excessive for the security afforded thereby. On a
tombstone in the graveyard here, we came upon, for the third time this
journey, the often-quoted epitaph to a blacksmith, beginning:--

    My sledge and hammer lie reclined,
    My bellows too have lost their wind,
    My fire’s extinct, my forge decayed,
    And in the dust my vice is laid.

           *       *       *       *       *


This familiar inscription has been stated by guidebook compilers to be
found in this churchyard and that; the lines, however, had a common
origin, being first written by the poet Hayley for the epitaph of one
William Steel, a Sussex blacksmith, and cut on his tombstone in the
churchyard of Felpham near Bognor. The inscription at once became
popular, and was freely copied all over England, like the ubiquitous and
intensely irritating “Diseases sore

[Sidenote: _ANCIENT EPITAPHS_]

long time he bore, Physicians were in vain,” etc. In a similar manner,
though to a far less extent, the quaint epitaph that formerly existed in
a private chapel in Tiverton churchyard, to Edward Courtenay, the third
Earl of Devon, and his Countess, appears to have been copied with
variations. Writing early in the seventeenth century, Risdon, in his
_Survey of Devonshire_, gives this epitaph thus:--

    Hoe! hoe! who lies here?
    ’Tis I, the good Erle of Devonshire,
    With Kate my wife to mee full dere,
    Wee lyved togeather fyfty-fyve yere.
      That wee spent we had,
      That wee lefte wee loste,
      That wee gave wee have. 1419.

This appeared in old Doncaster church in the following form:--

        Hoe! hoe! who is heare?
    I Robin of Doncaster and Margaret my feare.
        That I spent I had,
        That I gave I have,
        That I left I lost. A.D. 1579.

A near relation to this may be found on a brass at Foulsham near Reepham
in Norfolk, that reads:--

    Of all I had, this only now I have,
    Nyne akers wh unto ye poore I gave,
    Richard Fenn who died March ye 6. 1565.

But now that I have got upon the attractive subject of epitaphs again, I
must control my pen or I shall fill up pages unawares: already I find I
have strayed far away from Lincolnshire.




CHAPTER XI

     A pleasant road--Memories--Shortening of names--Health-drinking--A
     miller and his mill--A rail-less town--Changed times and changed
     ways--An Elizabethan church clock--A curious coincidence--Old
     superstitions--Satire in carving--“The Monks of Old.”


From Bourn we decided to drive to Sleaford, an easy day’s stage of
eighteen miles, baiting half-way at Falkingham. Upon asking the ostler
about the road, it struck us as curious to hear him remark that it was a
hilly one; so accustomed had we become to the level roads of the Fens
that for the moment we had forgotten that Lincolnshire is a county of
heaths, hills, and waving woods as well as of fens, dykes, and sluggish
streams.

The aspect of the country we passed through that morning had completely
changed from that of yesterday; it was pleasantly undulating, and even
the brake was brought into requisition once or twice, for the first time
since we left London. Hedges again resumed their sway, and we realised
their tangled beauties all the more for our recent absence from them;
sturdy oaks and rounded elms took the place of the silvery flickering
willows and of the tall thin poplars, and smooth-turfed meadows that of
the coarse-grassed marsh-lands. The general forms and outlines of the
country were more familiar, but it seemed a little wanting in colour
after the rich tints of the lowlands; by contrast it all appeared too
green: green fields, green trees, green crops, for these, with the
winding road, chiefly composed the prospect. Moreover, we missed the
constant and enlivening accompaniment of water that we had become so
accustomed to, with its soft, silvery gleaming under cloud and its
cheerful glittering under sun. Water is to the landscape what the eye is
to the human face; it gives it the charm of expression and vivacity. At
first, also, our visions seemed a little cramped after the wide and
unimpeded prospects of the Fens; and the landscape struck us as almost
commonplace compared with that we had so lately passed through, which
almost deserved the epithet of quaint, at least to non-Dutch eyes. There
was no special feature in the present scenery beyond its leafy
loveliness. Truly it might be called typically English, but there was
nothing to show that it belonged to any particular portion of
England--no distant peep of downs, or hills, or moors, that seems so
little, but which to the experienced traveller means so much, as by the
character and contour of distant hill, or moor, or down he can tell
fairly well whether he be in the north or south, the east or west, and
may even shrewdly guess the very county he is traversing.

[Sidenote: _A PASTORAL LAND_]

It was, however, a lovely country, full of pastoral peacefulness,
sunshine, and grateful sylvan shadiness, lovely yet lonely--a loneliness
that aroused within us a feeling akin to melancholy: it may have been
our mood that saw it so that day, and that the fault lay in ourselves
and not in the landscape. Does not the poet say, “Our sweetest songs are
those that tell of saddest thought”? So may not the sweetest scenery, in
certain minds, and under certain conditions, arouse a sentiment of
sadness? There is a peacefulness that is restful beyond words,
especially to the town-wearied brain; but there is also a peacefulness
so deep as to become actually oppressive. However, all the feelings of
loneliness and melancholy vanished, like the mist before the sun, at the
sight of an old-fashioned windmill painted a cheerful white and
picturesquely situated at the top of a knoll by the side of our road,
its great sails whirling round and round with a mighty sweep and a
swishing sound as they rushed through the air in their never-completed
journey. This busy mill gave just the touch of needful life to the
prospect; we hailed it as we would have hailed an old friend, and at
once our spirits rose to a gleesome point. What trifles may thus
suddenly change the current of thought and feeling! It may even be so
small a matter as the scent of a wild flower, or the sound of the wind
in the trees, recalling past days and far-away scenes. So this old mill
brought up before us a rush of pleasant memories, the poetry of many a
rural ramble, of chats with merry meal-covered millers, for millers I
have ever found to be the merriest of men, and never yet have I come
upon a crusty one. All those to whom I have talked, and they have not
been few, without exception appeared to take a rosy view of life, not
even grumbling with cause. I wish I knew the miller’s secret of
happiness!

[Sidenote: _A DOUBTFUL PLEASURE_]

It was whilst watching the hurtling sails of the creaking mill that it
occurred to us why the country seemed so dull that day; it was the
absence of movement, we had the road all to ourselves. There was no
flowing river or running stream, and the cattle in the fields were lazy
and placid, seemingly as immovable as those in pictures; not even
troubling to whisk their tails at real or imaginary flies. Even the
birds appeared too indolent to fly; at least they were strangely
invisible. An air of solemn repose pervaded the whole countryside until
that cheery windmill came into view. It was curious that at the moment
the only life in the landscape should be given to it by a building! for
the mind pictures a building as a substantial thing not given to any
movement.

Shortly after this we reached the pretty and picturesquely situated
village of Aslackby--shortened to Asby by a native of whom we asked its
name--even the rustic has come into line with the late nineteenth
century, so far as not to waste breath or words. The straggling village
was situated in a wooded hollow a little below our road; its ancient
church and cottages, half drowned in foliage, formed a charming picture.
The church looked interesting, but we found the door carefully locked,
and not feeling just then our archæological and antiquarian zeal
sufficient to induce us to go a-clerk-hunting, a doubtful joy at the
best, we quietly, and, I fear, unregretfully, resumed our seats in the
dog-cart, for the soft sunshine and sweet air were grateful to our
senses, and it pleased us to be out in the open.

Just beyond Aslackby a wayside inn ycleped “The Robin Hood” invited us
with the following lines on its sign-board, though unavailingly, to stop
and refresh ourselves there:--

    Gentlemen if you think good,
    Step in and drink with Robin Hood:
    If Robin Hood abroad is gone,
    Pray take a glass with Little John.

Noting us stop to take down the inscription, and possibly mistaking our
motive, the familiar incident once more took place--a beery-looking
passer-by approached us and remarked that he could recommend the tap. We
thanked him for his kindness, and jokingly responded that we did not
happen to be thirsty just then, but we would bear in mind his
recommendation should we ever again be in the neighbourhood. “Not
thirsty on such a day as this,” he exclaimed with an air of surprise;
“why, I be as thirsty as a fish”; but we did not rise to the occasion,
and as we drove away the man glanced reproachfully after us, then he
disappeared within the building. Perhaps we might have parted with the
customary twopence, for the man was civil-mannered, but why should the
wanderer by road in England be so frequently expected to have his health
drunk by utter strangers? The number of twopences I have already
expended for this purpose since I first started my driving tours must be
considerable!

Some way farther on our road we chanced upon still another ancient
wooden mill busily at work like the former one. It was a picturesque
mill of a primitive type that is fast disappearing from the land; the
whole structure being supported on a great central post that acts as a
pivot, and is bodily turned on this by a long projecting beam acting as
a lever, so that the sails can be made to face the wind from whichever
quarter it may come; but this arrangement, of course, needs constant
watchfulness.

[Sidenote: _IN A WINDMILL_]

We pulled up here in order to make a sketch of the old mill, that looked
almost too quaint and picturesque to be real, giving one a sort of
impression that it must have come out of some painting, an artist’s
ideal realised. The worthy miller watched our proceeding with manifest
interest from his doorway above, and when we had finished he asked us if
we would care to take a glance inside. We did care, and likewise were
not averse to have the opportunity of a chat so that we might gather his
view of the world and of things in general, for naturally everybody sees
the former from his own centre, and through his own glasses. We had to
mount a number of rickety steps that communicated with the creaking mill
above which oscillated unpleasantly, for the sails were spinning round
apace before the breeze, causing the ancient structure to tremble and
its timbers to groan like those of a ship in a gale; indeed, when we had
safely surmounted the flight of shaking steps we felt that we sadly
needed our “sea-legs” to stand at all, and the latter are not always
immediately at command when cruising on land. “She’s running a bit free
to-day,” exclaimed the miller, smiling and all gray-white with dusty
meal, “and she’s not so young as she were by a couple of centuries or
so, but she’s quite safe though she do rock and rattle a bit. But Lor’
bless you, I likes to hear her talk; it’s company like, for it’s lonely
work up here by oneself all day at times.” It was not only that the
ancient mill moved and shook so, but the floor was uneven as well, nor
was there overmuch elbow-room to allow a margin for unsteadiness, and it
would have been awkward to have been caught by any of the whirring
wheels; moreover the noise was confusing and the light seemed dim for
the moment after the bright sunshine without. But we soon got used to
the new condition of things and our novel and unstable surroundings.

“I wonder she has never been blown right over in a storm during all
those years,” I said, “for she is only supported on a single post,
though certainly it is a big one.” In truth the mill shook so much in
the comparatively steady breeze that it seemed to us a heavy storm would
easily have laid her low. Mills, like ships, are always “she’s,” I have
observed, though how a man-of-war can be a “she” has always puzzled me.
“Well, she may be only supported on one post, but that is of solid heart
of oak, as whole and strong to-day as when first put up; not worm-eaten
a bit. There’s an old saying you may have heard, ‘there’s nothing like
leather’; it ought to be, I thinks, by rights, ‘there’s nothing like
oak.’ She do rock though when it blows hard, but I’m used to it; it’s
her nature, and she’ll last

[Sidenote: _A CHAT WITH A MILLER_]

my life. Oh yes, she’s very old-fashioned and slow, but for all that she
can grind corn better nor your modern mills, in spite of what people
talk. We grinds the wheat and makes honest meal; the modern mills with
their rollers make simply flour, which is not half as wholesome or
nourishing. Wheat-meal and flour are not the same, though they both make
bread: wheat-meal possesses nourishing qualities that ordinary flour
does not.” So one drives about country and learns!

The miller looked an oldish man, but his face and beard (I think he had
a beard, but my memory may be at fault) were white from dusty meal, and
may have made him appear older than he really was. Anyhow, we ventured
to ask him if he thought times had altered for the better or for the
worse since he was young. Like the rest of the world, merry miller
though he was, he complained of the severe competition that had cut down
profits to a minimum, whilst the work was harder. In “the good old days”
of milling, when he began the trade, the price for grinding corn used to
be 1s. a strike or 8s. a quarter for wheat, and 8d. a strike or 5s. 4d.
a quarter for barley; now the charge is 5s. 4d. a quarter for wheat, and
2s. 6d. a quarter for barley. “Moreover, nowadays, though we gets less
money for the work, we have to fetch the corn and take the meal back
again; whereas in past times the corn was carted to the mill, and taken
away when ground.” So that, we were given to understand, besides the
lowering of prices there was the cost of cartage to and fro to be taken
into consideration. It is the same familiar story of a harder struggle
to earn a living, entailing besides a lessened leisure. Some one has to
suffer for the benefit of cheap production, and the small man suffers
most.

Bidding good-bye to our worthy miller, who, in spite of altered times,
had a contented look that a millionaire well might envy, we remounted
the dogcart and soon reached the sleepy, little, and erst market town of
Falkingham--a town unknown to Bradshaw, because it has been left out in
the cold by the railway, but none the less picturesque on that account!
Here the road widened out into a large triangle, the base being at the
end farthest away from us; this formed the old market-place, a pleasant
open space surrounded by quaint and ancient houses and shops. One of
these houses especially interested us, a substantial stone building with
mullioned windows, set slightly back from the roadway and approached
between two massive pillars surmounted by round stone balls. It was not
perhaps actually picturesque, but it had such a charming air of quiet
dignity, and looked so historical in a mild manner, as to make the
modern villa seem a trumpery affair. It was a house that struck you as
having been built originally for the owner to live in and to enjoy, in
contradistinction to which the “desirable residence” of to-day always
seems to me to be built to sell. The stones of this old house were
delightfully toned into a series of delicate grays, enlivened here and
there by splashes of gold and silver lichen. What a difference there is
between the wealth of colourful hues of a time-tinted country building
and the begrimed appearance of a smoke-stained London dwelling. Age adds
beauty to the one; it adds but a depressing gloom to the other.

[Sidenote: _PRE-RAILWAY TRAVELLERS_]

Right in front of us, at the top of the market-place, stood a fine
example of an old coaching inn--a long red-brick structure whose ruddy
front showed in pleasant contrast with the gray stone buildings around
of earlier date: a plain but comfortable-looking hostelry, its many
windows gleaming cheerfully in the sunshine, and having in the centre
under the eaves of its roof a reminder of the past in the shape of a
sun-dial with a legend upon it; but what that legend was we could not
make out, for time and weather had rendered it indistinct. In our mind’s
eye we pictured to ourselves the outside travellers by the arriving
coaches consulting it, and then pulling their cumbersome “verge” watches
out of their fobs to see if they were correct. Sun-dials, besides being
picturesque, were of real utility in the days when watches and clocks
could not always be relied upon to tell the right time.

Of old, Falkingham was on the high turnpike road from London to Lincoln,
therefore the traffic passing through the little town in the coaching
age must have been considerable, and the place must have presented a
very different aspect then from the one of slumberous tranquillity it
now possesses. Our inn, “The Greyhound” to wit, I find duly recorded in
my copy of _Paterson_ as supplying post-horses. I well remember my
grandfather expatiating upon the pleasures of a driving tour in his
young days when he left home with his travelling carriage packed, but
without horses, as he posted from town to town and place to place,
without the shadow of anxiety about the “cattle,” or having any need to
consider whether this or that stage was too long. It was expensive
travelling doubtless, but delightfully luxurious and free from care,
except for the bogey of the highwayman; but every pleasure has its
shadow! The Greyhound has manifestly been but little altered since the
last coach pulled up there, beyond that the great arched entranceway in
the centre has been glazed and converted into a hall, which may or may
not be an improvement: personally, for tradition’s sake, I look
jealously upon any modifications in the economy of these ancient
coaching houses; but one cannot keep the hand of Time back just for the
sake of tradition or the picturesque.

Having refreshed ourselves very satisfactorily here, our roast beef
being washed down with a foaming tankard of genuine home-brewed ale, we
set out to have a quiet look at the clean past-time town, which, as a
matter of fact, we could take in at a glance, for it was all gathered
round its large old market-square, though market-triangle would be a
more correct term. Falkingham seems never to have known the hand of the
modern builder, and has therefore happily preserved its charming
old-world look, thanks doubtless in a great measure, if not wholly, to
the fact of the railway having left it stranded high and dry out of the
traveller’s beat.

Our stroll round the square did not take long:

[Sidenote: _A RAIL-LESS TOWN_]

the only inhabitants we saw were an old gaffer talking across a garden
wall to a woman who stood in her doorway listlessly listening to him; we
were much amused to hear the former suddenly exclaim, just as we passed
by, “Why, bless my soul, I’ve been over half an hour here; I must go now
and have a chat with old Mother Dash.” It suggested to us that his life
was mostly composed of gossiping, and that time was not such a priceless
commodity at Falkingham as in most places. Here at least the hurry and
rush, the stress and striving of the nineteenth century appear not to
have penetrated, and humanity rusts rather than wears away. Can this be
due to the mere absence of the railway, I wonder? Certainly where the
iron horse does not penetrate, life seems to be lived at a lower
pressure than elsewhere. A deep sense of repose hung over the whole
place, a peacefulness that could possibly be felt; for a town it was
unnaturally--painfully I might almost say--silent: in the heart of the
country we could not have found a greater tranquillity!

Having “done” the town and having added a few more pencil notes to our
sketch-book, on glancing around we suddenly espied the church half
hidden away in a corner to the left of our inn that somehow we had
hitherto overlooked. Approaching the aged fane we noticed a great
clockface on the weather-worn and hoary tower with a solitary wooden
hand thereon pointing aimlessly down to six; it was then a few minutes
to one, for we had lunched early, having started in the morning
“betimes,” to once again employ Mr. Pepys’s favourite expression. For
when driving across country it is well to have a long day before one;
even then the whole day was sometimes too short!

Affixed to the porch of the church we observed the following notice,
that plainly tells its own tale of changed times and changed ways, and
of an enlightened, up-to-date ecclesiasticism:--

                           Cyclists Welcomed
                           In Cycling Dress.

Entering the building we heard a peculiar creaking noise, apparently
proceeding from the tower above, that was in singular contrast with the
otherwise profound stillness of the interior. This puzzled us, and,
discovering a circular stone stairway that led up the tower, we promptly
ascended it to solve the mystery. This eventually--after climbing over
one hundred steps (we counted them)--took us into a small chamber, where
we found the sexton winding up an ancient clock of curious design, an
interesting specimen of medieval handicraft. I sincerely trust that no
agent from South Kensington or other museum, or any emissary from
Wardour Street, will unearth this antique “time-teller,” or if unhappily
they do, I trust that they will not be permitted to possess it, even
though they promise a brand new clock in its place! I prefer to see such
curiosities in their rightful positions, where they ought to remain
their natural life undisturbed, and where alone they are in harmony with
their surroundings. Many an ancient

[Sidenote: _AN ELIZABETHAN CLOCK_]

helmet, that once hung over the recumbent effigy of its former knightly
owner in the quiet village church, has been basely filched away to add
to the collector’s store, where they may only be seen by the favoured
few, and why should this be? The queer old clock was being wound up, not
by a key, but by a sort of miniature windlass. The works were of wrought
iron, all hammered and cut by hand, for machinery manifestly had no part
in their construction; perhaps that is why they have lasted so long!
From our knowledge of such things, we concluded that this clock could
not have been of later date than Elizabeth’s time; how much earlier, if
any, it would be hard to say. Unless, however, we are greatly mistaken,
it has outlived three centuries, and has probably marked the hours all
those long years, more or less correctly, whilst the cunning hands that
designed and constructed it are forgotten dust. Here the inevitable
moral should follow, but I refrain. This reminds me that I once gave my
thirteen-year-old daughter an improving, well-intentioned book, and in
due course I asked her how she liked it: “Well, dada,” she replied,
quite innocently, “when you’ve skipped all the goody bits there’s
nothing left!” A brass plate attached to the clock informed us that

                               W. Foster
                          Repaired this Clock
                              Anno Domini
                                 1816.

We understood that, so far as the sexton knew, it had not been repaired
since that date. Then we called the sexton’s attention to the fact that
the face of the clock had but one hand, and that was loose and moved to
and fro in the wind as helplessly as a weather-vane: “Yes,” he replied
with a grin, “I had to pull the other hand off; it caught in the wind so
as to slow the clock, and when it blew hard sometimes it stopped her
going altogether. I left the other hand on, as being loose it could do
no harm”! This sounded a delightfully primitive way out of a mechanical
difficulty; quite a stroke of rural genius! At the same time it appeared
to us strangely inconsistent and illogical to have a clock going that
did not show the time. “Lor’ bless you, sir,” responded he, “the old
clock strikes the hours right enough, and that’s all the folk want to
know. Why, if the hands were going they’d never look up at ’em. Not
they.” What a lotus-eating land this, we thought, where people only care
to know the hours, and take no thought of the intervals! Just then the
sexton began to toll a loud bell vigorously. In reply to our query for
the reason of this, he explained that it was the custom there to ring
the bell every morning at eight o’clock, and again at one o’clock, “and
it’s one o’clock now, and so I’m ringing of it. I don’t rightly know how
old the custom be, but the bell be very useful, as it lets the people at
work in the fields around know the time. We calls this the dinner bell.
You see it carries farther than the sound of the clock striking.”

We then ventured to admire the old tower, a fine specimen of
Perpendicular masonry, possessing some much-weathered, curious but
rather coarse gargoyles outside. The sexton also admired it: “It
certainly be a fine tower; there’s a wonderfully good view of the
country round from the top. I allus goes up there when the hounds be out
to see the run. I know no other tower in the district from which you can
see so far. Now, if them old builders had only,” etc., etc. I am afraid
the sexton and ourselves regarded the old tower from two very dissimilar
standpoints.

[Sidenote: _OUT OF THE BEATEN TRACK_]

Descending into the body of the church, we noticed a doorway in the
south wall, and caught a peep of some stone steps beyond, leading, we
were informed, to a chamber over the porch formerly used as a
schoolroom, “now we only keep rubbish in it, odd tiles, broken bits of
carvings, and the like. You can go up if you care to, but it be rare and
dusty.” We did care to go up. Indeed, in the fondness of our heart for
such things we even dared to hope that perchance we might, to use an
expressive term much favoured by antiquaries, come upon “a find” there.
Here, we reasoned, is a fine and ancient church, well out of the beaten
track of travel. The present interior suggested that it had once been
richly adorned; presumably it had suffered, more or less, the fate of
other ornate churches during the Commonwealth. Who can tell but that
some quaint relic of its former beauty may not be stowed away up there
amongst the rubbish? The very mention of “odd tiles” sounded
encouraging, only supposing that there happened to be some quaint
medieval ones amongst the number! So, full of pleasant anticipation, we
eagerly ascended the steep stone steps, worn both very concave and
slippery with the tread of generations departed. We reached a large
parvise, or priest’s chamber, provided with a fireplace; the uneven
floor was strewn with bits of broken tiles, worm-eaten wood, plaster,
bricks, etc. The chamber was exceedingly dusty and cobwebby, but we at
once enthusiastically began to search amongst the litter for anything of
interest, but, alas! discovered nothing noteworthy; the tiles were
modern. The sexton was right after all--it was full of rubbish! So,
disappointed and almost as white as a miller, we descended the slippery
steps. Then as the sexton--there was no clerk, he informed us--seemed in
a chatty mood, we asked him if he knew of any curious inscription in the
churchyard. “Well, I think I can show you one that will interest you,”
he replied, whereupon he led the way outside and we followed. Coming to
an old tombstone he remarked, “Now, I call this a funny one; it is to a
man and his wife who both died in the same year, and were both exactly
the same age to a day when they died.” Then he rubbed the ancient stone
over with his hand, that we might better read what was written thereon,
which I copied as follows:--

                                  To
                             The Memory of
                              JOHN BLAND
                      Who Died March 25th, 1797,
                  Aged 75 Years, 6 Weeks, and 4 Days.

                   *       *       *       *       *

                                Also of
                            JANE, his Widow
                       Who Died May 11th, 1797,
                  Aged 75 Years, 6 Weeks, and 4 Days.

[Sidenote: _A FORTUNATE COMBINATION_]

Provided the inscription records facts, it certainly is a curious
coincidence; still quite a possible one.

Returning to our inn, we ordered the horses to be “put to,” and whilst
this was being done, we had a chat with the landlord, from whom we
learnt that he both brewed his own ale and grew his own barley to brew
it with. It is the pleasant fate of some of these remote old coaching
hostelries in their old age to become half hotel and half farmhouse, and
a more fortunate combination for the present-day traveller there could
not be. By this arrangement the old buildings are preserved and cared
for in a manner that diminished custom would hardly permit were they to
remain purely as inns; nor does the providing suffer from the blending
of uses, the produce of the farm being at command, which means, or
should mean, fresh vegetables, milk, butter, and eggs. In the present
case it further meant the rare luxury of home-brewed ale from home-grown
grain, and a quart of such, does not Shakespeare say, “is a dish for a
king”?

We drove on now through a pretty and well-wooded country, our road
winding in and out thereof in the most enticing manner: every now and
then we caught refreshing peeps of a far-away distance, faintly blue,
out from which came to us a fragrant breeze, cool, sweet, and soothing.
In driving across country it is not only the prospect that changes but
the air also, and, as the eye delights in the change of scene, so the
lungs rejoice in the change of climate. The landscape all around had a
delightfully fresh and smiling look; it was intensely pastoral and
peaceful, and over all there brooded a sense of deep contentment and
repose. Old time-mellowed farmsteads and quiet cottage homes were dotted
about, from which uprose circling films of blue-gray smoke, agreeably
suggestive of human occupancy. “How English it all looked,” we
exclaimed, and these five words fitly describe the scenery. In that
sentence pages of word-painting are condensed!

As we proceeded above the woods to the left and the right of us rose two
tall tapering spires, belonging respectively--at least so we made out
from our map--to the hamlets of Walcot and Treckingham. These spires
reminded us what splendid churches some of the small Lincolnshire
villages possess; there they stand in remote country districts often
hastening to decay, with no one to admire them. The ancient architects
who

    Built the soaring spires
    That sing their soul in stone,

seem to have built these songs in vain: for what avails a poem that no
one prizes? The Lincolnshire rustic is made of stern stuff, he is
honest, hardy, civil, manly, independent (at least that is the opinion I
have formed of him), but he is not a bit poetical, and a good deal of a
Puritan: I fancy, if I have read him aright, he would as soon worship in
a barn as in a church; indeed, I think he would prefer to do so if he
had his own way, as being more homelike. A clergyman I met on the
journey and who confided in me said, “To get on in Lincolnshire, before
all things it is necessary to believe in game, and not to trouble too
much about

[Sidenote: _STRANGE REVELATIONS_]

the Catholic faith.” He said this in a joking manner truly, but I could
see that he jested in earnest: he further assured me as a positive fact
that both devil-worship and a belief in witchcraft existed in the
county. He said, “I could tell you many strange things of my rural
experiences,” and he did--how the devil is supposed to haunt the
churchyards in the shape of a toad, and how witchcraft is practised,
etc. “You may well look astonished,” he exclaimed, “at what I tell you,
but these things are so; they have come under my notice, and I speak
advisedly from personal knowledge.”

Presently we reached the village of Osbournby; here the church looked
interesting, so we stopped in order to take a glance inside, and were
well rewarded for our trouble by discovering a number of very fine and
quaintly-carved medieval bench-ends in an excellent state of
preservation. Medieval carvings have generally a story to tell, though
being without words some people are forgetful of the fact, deeming them
merely ornamental features, and so miss the carver’s chief aim because
they do not look for it; sometimes, by way of relief, they have a joke
to make, now and then they are keenly sarcastic: but the stories--not
the jokes--mostly need time to elucidate, for they often mean more than
meets the eye at a hurried glance; moreover they have to be read in the
spirit of the age that produced them. One of the bench-end carvings at
Osbournby that is particularly noticeable represents a cunning-looking
fox standing up in a pulpit preaching to a silly-looking congregation
of geese, a favourite subject by the way with the monkish sculptors, and
a telling contemporary satire on the priesthood by those who ought to
know it best. It is remarkable that this peculiar subject should have
been so popular, for I have met with it frequently; there is a good
example of the same on one of the miserere seats in St. David’s
Cathedral. What does it signify?

Still more curious does this strange satire seem when we remember that
in the dark ages such carvings were the poor man’s only literature, for
then even reading was a polite art confined to the learned few, and
spelling was in its infancy. One finds it difficult to conjecture why
the Church allowed such ridicule of its religious preaching to be thus
boldly proclaimed, so that even the unlettered many could hardly fail to
comprehend its meaning, for in this case the story meets the eye at once
and was manifestly intended to do so.

If we may judge them solely by their carvings the monks of old, at a
certain period, appear to have been craftsmen clever beyond cavil, full
of quaint conceits, not over refined, often sarcastic, sometimes
severely so, but curiously broad in their selection of subjects for
illustration. Of course they carved religious subjects as in duty bound,
and with painstaking care, but these all look stiff and mechanical,
forced and not spontaneous, possibly because they had to work more or
less in a traditional groove, and consequently there was no scope for
originality; but in their less serious

[Sidenote: _A MEDIEVAL LEECH_]

moments, and these seemed many, when the mood inclined them they wrought
carvings that were imbued with life; and laughed, or grinned, or joked
in stone or wood to their heart’s content; then the whole soul of the
craftsman entered into his work--and the inanimate matter lived,
breathed, and struggled. His comicalities are simply delightful; he was
the medieval Leech and Keene! Truly not all the old monks took religion
seriously! but whatever their virtues or failings they were artists of
no mean merit.




CHAPTER XII

     A civil tramp--Country hospitality--Sleaford--A Lincolnshire
     saying--A sixteenth-century vicarage--Struck by lightning--“The
     Queen of Villages”--A sculptured anachronism--Swineshead--A strange
     legend--Local proverbs--Chat with a “commercial”--A mission of
     destruction--The curfew--Lost our way--Out of the beaten track--A
     grotesque figure and mysterious legend--Puzzling inscriptions--The
     end of a long day.


Journeying leisurely on we presently arrived at the curiously entitled
village of Silk Willoughby; here again on asking the name of the place,
which we did before consulting our map, a native shortened it to Silkby.
It is a marked tendency of the age to contract the spelling and the
pronunciation of names to an irreducible minimum,--a tendency that I
have already remarked upon. Well, perhaps for everyday speech, Silk
Willoughby is rather overlong, and the more concise Silkby serves all
needful purposes. Still this pronouncing of names differently from what
they are spelt on the map is sometimes inconvenient to the stranger, as
the natives have become so accustomed to the abbreviated expression that
the full title of a place, given precisely as on the map, is
occasionally unfamiliar to them, and they will declare hopelessly that
they “never heard of no such

[Sidenote: _PLACE NAMES_]

place.” On the other hand, once when driving in Worcestershire we were
sadly puzzled when a tramp asked us if he were on the right road to
“Kiddy”; it eventually turned out that he wanted to get to
Kidderminster. I verily believe, tramp though he was, that he looked
upon us as ignoramuses in not recognising that curt appellation for the
town in question! He was a civil tramp though, for there are such beings
in the world, and we always make it a point to return civility with
civility, whether it be a ploughboy or a lord who is addressing us.
“Well now,” he exclaimed in genuine surprise as we parted, “to thinks
that you should not know that Kidderminster is called Kiddy. Why, I
thought as how everybody knew that.” In Sussex, too, once when driving
near Crowborough a man in a trap shouted to us to know if he were “right
for the Wells,” for the moment it did not occur to us that he meant
Tunbridge Wells, but that we discovered was what he did mean.

In Silk Willoughby, by the roadside, we noticed some steps with the
stump of the shaft of the village cross on the top; on four sides of the
base of this were the carved symbols of the Evangelists, much worn but
still traceable. We found that these steps, as is frequently the case,
formed a rendezvous and a playing-place for the village children, a fact
that can hardly tend to the preservation of the carvings!

As we had got down to make a sketch of the ruined cross we thought we
might as well walk across the road and have a look at the ancient
church. On reaching this the first thing that attracted our attention
was the following, “Iohn Oak, Churchwarden, 1690,” cut boldly straight
across the old oak door, though why John Oak’s name should be inscribed
in such a prominent position, and handed down to posterity thus I cannot
say. Possibly he presented the door to the church--though it looks older
than the date mentioned--and modestly inscribed his name thereon to
record his gift.

Within we found the building in a state of picturesque but pathetic
decay. Right in the centre of the nave was a big wooden post reaching
straight up from the stone slab floor to support the open timber roof
above; all the windows, except one to the right of the chancel which
from its position was hidden from the general view, had lost their
stained glass; and a huge horizontal beam that stretched across the
chancel also blocked the top of the east window,--the unhappy result of
a previous restoration we were informed. On the floor we noticed an
incised slab inscribed to the memory of one of the Armyn family; this
bore the date of MCCCLXVIIII, and was decorated with a finely engraved
cross, and a shield charged--I believe that is the correct heraldic
term--with a coat-of-arms. Another old tombstone laid on the floor,
having an inscription the lettering of which was deeply cut, we should
have liked to decipher, for it looked of interest, but as the greater
part was covered by a pew this was impossible.

[Sidenote: _PLEASANT CIVILITIES_]

Whilst we were endeavouring, with but small success, to puzzle out some
Latin (or dog-Latin) verse on an ancient brass, the rector made his
appearance, and, learning that we were driving across country and
strangers in the land, forthwith invited us to the rectory for afternoon
tea. Such kindly attentions had become quite customary features of our
wanderings, so much so that we had ceased to wonder at them, and we
greatly regretted in this instance to be obliged to decline such
thoughtfully proffered hospitality, as we had no means of lengthening
out the day to embrace all our pleasures! Truly the lot of the driving
tourist is an enviable one, a very enviable one when it takes him into
the pleasant land of Lincolnshire: a delightful thing it is to
experience this old-time friendliness--a friendliness that makes the
wheels of life run so smoothly, and reveals the gracious and sunny side
of human nature.

A mural tablet in the chancel rather amused us by the invitation
contained in the first two lines of a long inscription,

    Kind stranger stay a moment ere you go,
    Attend and view this monumental show.

Thus were we bidden to read through a tedious and wordy eulogy upon a
youth whose only distinction appeared to be that he died young,--there
is such a thing as consistency in epitaphs, the tomb of many a hero
takes up less space than this one! The famous Speaker Lenthall of the
Long Parliament directed that “no monument whatever should be placed
over him, save only a plain stone slab with the two words

    Vermis Sum.”

But he was a great man and lives in history. Frank Osborne, the author
and moralist, and contemporary of Speaker Lenthall, also dictated the
epitaph on his simple tombstone at Netherworton in Oxfordshire, in which
he pertinently remarks:

    I envy not those graves which take up room
    Merely with Jetts and Porphyry: since a tomb
          Adds no desert.

After all, simplicity and brevity of epitaph appeal more to the heart of
man than fulsome eulogy or “monumental show.”

In the chancel wall, immediately to the left of the east window, is a
tall narrow niche. The rector said he did not know the original purpose
of this, unless it were for ornament. The niche was too tall for a
statue, and we imagined from its form that probably it was intended, of
old, to receive the processional cross--the pre-Reformation churches
being, I believe, provided with a recess or a locker for this purpose. A
specimen of the latter, with the ancient ornamented oak door still in
position, may be found in the church at Barnby in Suffolk.

Then, bidding good-bye to the courteous and hospitable rector, we once
more resumed our pleasant pilgrimage, and, passing through an
eye-refreshing and peace-bestowing country of green meadows, waving
woods, and silvery streams, we reached the

[Sidenote: _WEATHER SIGNS_]

ancient town of Sleaford just as the sun was setting red in the west, a
fact, according to the well-known proverb--which however we have not
found to be perfectly reliable--that should ensure fine weather for the
morrow--“Red at night is a shepherd’s delight; red in the morning is a
shepherd’s warning.” Well, I am not a shepherd, but speaking from my
experience as a road traveller, who naturally studies the weather, I
have frequently noted that a red morning has been followed by a
gloriously fine and sunny day. When, however, the sky is a wan yellow at
sunrise, and especially if the wind be south-westerly, then you may
expect rain before evening with some degree of certainty; but of all
things to dogmatise about, the English weather is the most dangerous.

As we entered Sleaford we noticed a monument to a local celebrity, the
designer of which we imagined had been inspired by the excellent example
of a Queen Eleanor’s Cross. The structure certainly adds interest to the
street in which it stands, and this is a great deal more than can be
said of most memorials of notables in the shape of statues, which,
perched high on pedestals, are generally prominent eyesores that a
long-suffering community has to put up with. Close to this monument was
a pump, below which a basin was inscribed, “Every good gift is from
above.” The quotation did not strike us as the most appropriate that
might be chosen, as the pump was erected for the purpose of obtaining
water from below.

Sleaford, on the day we arrived, offered a great contrast to the
slumberous quiet of Falkingham, for it was the evening of the annual
sheep fair, and groups of agriculturists were scattered about engaged in
eager conversation, and flocks of sheep were being driven out of the
town, with much shouting, dog-barking, and commotion, and farmers in
gigs or on horseback starting back home added to the general
restlessness. Indeed, after the deep tranquillity of the lonely country
roads we had traversed that day, Sleaford seemed a place of noise and
bustle. Next morning, however, we found the streets quiet enough, as we
remarked to a stranger in the stable-yard. “Yes,” he said, “Sleaford is
quiet enough. It sleeps more or less all the year, but wakes up once for
the annual fair. You mayn’t have heard the saying, ‘Sleaford for sleep,
Boston for business, Horncastle for horses, Louth for learning.’”
“Perhaps,” responded we, mindful of yesterday, “as it is Horncastle for
horses, it should be Sleaford for sheep, not ‘sleep.’” The two words
sound very much alike. But our suggestion was scorned.

Rambling about the town we noted the date of 1568 on a gable of the
half-timbered and creeperclad vicarage, that stood divided by a footpath
from the church. A noble structure the latter, with a most effectively
picturesque front owing to the fact that the aisles are lengthened so as
to be in level line with the tower; the pierced parapet extending across
this long front is adorned with bell-turrets, pinnacles, and minarets,
forming a varied outline against the sky. Whilst we were taking a
pencil

[Sidenote: _A CATASTROPHE_]

outline of this charming specimen of ancient architecture, a man in dark
tweeds approached us, who said he was an amateur photographer, and would
give us a photograph of the building if we liked. We thanked him very
much for his kindness, but he did not go home to fetch the said
photograph, as we expected, but stood watching us finish our sketch.
Then we made some random remark to the effect that it was a very fine
church,--we had nearly said “a very fine day,” from sheer custom, but
checked ourselves half-way. In conversation we always endeavour to keep
the weather back as a last resource; but old crusted habits are
difficult to conquer. “Yes,” he agreed, “it’s a fine church, but it was
finer before the tower was knocked down.” For a moment we imagined that
we were talking with an escaped lunatic; we had never heard of a church
tower being “knocked down” before! “What,” queried we, “did a traction
engine run into it, or how did it get knocked down?” The answer was
reassuring; we were not talking to a lunatic! “It was knocked down by
lightning when I was fifteen years younger than I am now. It happened
one Sunday morning during service. The storm came on very suddenly, and
I was sheltering in a doorway over yonder. Suddenly there was a blinding
flash and a great crack of thunder, and I saw the tower come crashing
down with a tremendous roar, followed by a cloud of dust or steam, I’m
not sure which. Then the people rushed out of church pell-mell--men
without their hats, all in the soaking rain, for it did pour down, and
women screaming. One woman shouted out that the end of the world had
come; it was the sound ‘of the last trump,’ and it was some time before
she became calm. I never saw anything like it.” Then he stopped for a
moment, and in a more thoughtful tone of voice proceeded, “Do you know
that catastrophe set me thinking a good deal. It struck me as very
strange that we should build churches for the worship of God, and that
God should so often destroy them by lightning. That morning the
public-houses escaped hurt, but the church was wrecked by fire from
heaven. It does seem strange to me.” And he became so engrossed in his
talk that he forgot all about the promised photograph, and we did not
like to remind him. “Why do you think the church was struck?” he asked
us as we parted. “Probably,” we replied, “because it was not protected
with a conductor, or if it were provided with one it was defective.”
“But that does not explain why Providence allowed it,” he retorted; but
we declined to be drawn into an argument. So we hastened back to our
hotel, and, as we had planned a long day’s journey, ordered the horses
to be “put to” at once.

Our road out of Sleaford led us through a level pastoral land, pleasant
enough to look upon, though there was nothing on the way of particular
interest to engage our attention till we reached Heckington, a large
village known locally, we were told, by the proud title of “the Queen of
Villages.” It certainly is a pretty place, and it possesses a truly
magnificent church that seems, like so many others in Lincolnshire,

[Sidenote: _AN ANACHRONISM_]

strangely out of proportion to the requirements of the parish. This
church has the architectural quality, so rare in English churches, of
being all of one period. Like Salisbury Cathedral it has the merit of
unity of design. We noticed some fine gargoyles on the tower, and a few
statues still remain in the niches thereof. Within, the building hardly
comes up to the expectations raised by its splendid exterior. It looks
spacious and well proportioned, but cold and bare, possibly chiefly due
to the want of stained glass. We noticed the mutilated effigy of an
ecclesiastic in an arched recess of the north wall, and above, enclosed
within a glass case, was an ancient broken silver chalice, doubtless
exhumed from his tomb. But perhaps the greatest thing of archæological
interest here is the superb and elaborately carved Easter Sepulchre, the
finest we have seen in England. At the base of this are sculptured stone
figures representing the Roman guards watching the tomb; and these are
shown clad in medieval armour!--a curious instance of inconsistency, but
then there were no art critics in those days, and the medieval carver
and painter were a law unto themselves! Yet in spite of their oftentimes
glaring anachronisms, the works of the medieval artists, be they
sculptors or painters, were always effective and suggestive of life, and
never failed to be decorative. Modern art, as a rule, simply reverses
these conditions. It is above all things correct--more precise than
poetical; magnificent in technique, but wanting in spirit.

After Heckington the country became more wooded, but still uneventful.
Crossing a wide dyke that stretched away monotonously straight for miles
on either hand, the roof-trees of the little town of Swineshead came
into sight peeping above a wealth of foliage. In spite of its
unattractive name Swineshead looked a charming place, and as we had
already driven eleven miles from Sleaford, we determined that we would
make our mid-day halt there, and drive on to Boston in the afternoon.

At Swineshead we found a little inn with stabling attached, the landlord
whereof chanced to be standing at his door as we drove up, and after the
preliminary greetings he informed us that a hot dinner of roast fowl,
etc., would be ready in a few minutes. We were considerably, though
pleasantly, surprised at learning this, for Swineshead is a small,
primitive town, hardly indeed more than a large village, and our inn had
a simple, countrified look in keeping with the place, and a cold repast,
therefore, was all we had looked for, but the wanderer by road never
knows what surprises are in store for him. The few minutes, however,
turned out to be nearly twenty, and whilst waiting in a small parlour
for our meal to be served, we amused ourselves by glancing over some odd
numbers of old provincial papers that we found there. One may often
glean something of interest by studying the pages of local magazines and
papers, and we did so on this occasion. In a copy of the _Horncastle
News_, dated 9th June 1894, that had somehow been preserved from
destruction, our eyes fell upon this paragraph that we deemed worthy of
being copied into our notebook. “A strange legend is current in
Swineshead that, ‘If a corpse lies in a house on Sunday there will be
three within the week.’ This saying has been verified twice this year.”
Which statement, if true as it presumably is, I suppose, serves as an
example to show that superstitious sayings may come true at times. When
things are possible they may occur; if they never did occur it would be
still more wonderful. All the same it is a remarkable coincidence,
though of course nothing more, that this “strange legend” should have
“been verified twice” in one year. We were amused also by another
article in one of the papers that dogmatically settled the everlasting
Irish question by stating all that is required is “more pigs and fewer
priests.” In the same paper we came upon several proverbs, or folk-lore,
said to be much employed in Lincolnshire. Apropos of striving after the
impossible, we were told: “One might as well try and wash a negro
white,” or “Try to fill a cask with ale by pouring it in at the
bung-hole whilst it ran out at the tap”; we were further informed it was
“Like searching for gold at the end of a rainbow.” Then followed a
saying that house-hunters might consider with advantage, “Where the sun
does not come, the doctor does.” I have quoted these items chiefly as a
sample of the sort of entertainment that is to be found in country
papers, a study of which may sometimes while away, profitably or
otherwise, those odd five minutes one so often has to spend in country
inn parlours.

[Sidenote: _COUNTRY SAYINGS_]

At last the dinner was served, and an excellent little dinner it proved
to be. At this moment a stranger entered and joined us at our meal. A
very talkative individual he proved to be, and we soon discovered that
he was a commercial traveller who drove about the country. “Ah!” he
remarked, “you’ve to thank me for this dinner; they knew I was coming,
it’s my day, and they always have a nice little dinner ready for me. If
you had come another day I fancy you would not have fared so well.” Then
we took the opportunity of discovering how the world looked as seen
through the eyes of a commercial traveller. “Yes, I like the life, it’s
pleasant enough in the summer time driving from place to place. The work
is not too hard, and one lives well. But it’s the winter time I don’t
care for. It’s not too pleasant then driving in the country when a
bitter east wind is blowing, and hail or sleet are dashed against you.
The country is very well, and pretty enough in the summer, but I prefer
towns in the winter. You get wet driving in the open too at times; now I
don’t mind being wet and warm, but to be wet and cold is cruel; and mind
you, you have always to come up smiling to your customers. Yes, you may
well wonder at my coming to such an uncommercial-looking place as
Swineshead, but it’s in these little country towns nowadays that we do
our best trade in spite of appearances; you see they supply the rural
folk all around, for these people do not get their goods from the London
stores like most of those do who live in the towns. The parcel post
makes it hard for the provincial shopkeeper to get a living, it acts as
a huge country delivery for the stores and big shops in London: people
write up to town one day and get their goods sent down to their houses
the next.” Then our commercial suddenly remembered he had business to
attend to and took his leave, and we went out for a stroll.

[Sidenote: _A RESTORATION BACKWARDS_]

Wandering about we observed the steps and base of the shaft of an
ancient market cross by the roadside, for Swineshead was once a market
town, also another relic of a past civilisation in the shape of the
decayed stocks. Then we took a glance at the interior of the church and
found a party of ladies therein busily employed in decorating it for the
harvest festival; as we were leaving the vicar made his appearance and
kindly volunteered to show us over the building. When he first came
there, he informed us, he found the village school was held in a portion
of the nave partitioned off for that purpose, and that the children used
the graveyard as a playground when the weather was fine, and the
interior of the church when it was wet, romping and shouting about, and
indulging in the game of hide-and-seek amongst the pews! The pulpit then
was of the old “three-decker” type, and the rest of the church
furnishings in keeping therewith. This is all changed now, and the
church has been restored backwards to something more resembling its
primitive condition. Under the communion table we had pointed out to us
the original altar-slab with the five crosses thereon, which had been
used to pave the church, a fact the vicar discovered in 1870, in this
wise. Colonel Holingshead had been sent there in 1567 “to destroy all
superstitious articles,” and of his mission thus the Colonel reported:
“We came to Swineshead, here we found two altars, one was broken in
taking down, one we took entire and laid in on the pavement.” After
reading this the vicar made search for the latter and found it in the
flooring as described. So what one generation removes another restores;
one blackens, the other whitens; one has a predilection for ceremony,
another for simplicity: it is the everlasting swing of the pendulum
first to one side then to the other, there is even a fashion in religion
as in all things else, though we may not call or know it by that name.
The Puritan claimed that he destroyed beautiful things not because he
hated them, but of painful necessity because in churches he found that
they were associated with shameful imposture and debasing superstition.
To-day the modern Puritan does not appear to object to ornate fanes of
worship, he even expresses his admiration of decorative art, it is the
ritual and vestments he despises; for thus a famous American puritan
writes of Ely Cathedral: “The beauty of Ely is originality combined with
magnificence. The cathedral is not only glorious; it is also strange....
Its elements of splendour unite to dazzle the vision and overwhelm the
soul.... When you are permitted to sit there, in the stillness, with no
sound of a human voice and no purl of ecclesiastical prattle to call you
back to earth, you must indeed be hard to impress if your thoughts are
not centred upon heaven. It is the little preacher in his ridiculous
vestments, it is man with his vanity and folly, that humiliates the
reverent pilgrim in such holy places as this, by his insistent contrast
of his own conventional littleness with all that is celestial in the
grandest architectural results of the inspiration of genius.” The
pointed remark, “no ecclesiastical prattle to call you back to earth,”
is noteworthy.

[Sidenote: _A QUAINT LOCAL CUSTOM_]

At Swineshead we learnt that the curfew is still tolled at eight o’clock
every evening for five minutes, and after a short interval this is
followed by another bell which tells the date of the month. A quaint
local custom, and may it long continue! As we were leaving the church
our attention was called to the date 1593, deeply cut on one of the
beams of the timber roof, presumably marking the date of its
construction, or more probably its restoration.

On leaving Swineshead for Boston we were told to “take the first to the
left and then drive straight on, you cannot possibly miss your way.
You’ll see the stump right before you,”--“the stump” being the local and
undignified term by which the lofty tower of Boston’s famous church is
known. A tower that rises 272 feet boldly up into the air, and is
crowned at the top with an open octagonal lantern of stone--a landmark
and a sea-mark over leagues of flat Fenland and tumbling waters. This
tall tower rising thus stately out of the wide plain has a fine effect,
seen from far away it seems to be of a wonderful height, and, as an
ancient writer says, “it meets the travellers thereunto twenty miles
off, so that their eyes are there many hours before their feet.” This
was, of course, before the days of the railway, but it is still true of
the leisurely road wanderer.

Though we were told to drive straight on, and that we could not possibly
miss our way, we managed very successfully to do the latter, and the
former we found difficult of accomplishment, as in due course we came to
the junction of two roads, one branching to the left, and the other to
the right, and how to drive “straight on” under those circumstances
would have puzzled the wisest man. At the point there was no sign-post,
nor was there a soul in sight; we consulted our map, but this did not
help us, for it mixed up the roads with the dykes in such a puzzling way
that we could not make out which was intended for which. We waited some
time in the hopes that some one might appear on the scene, but no one
did, so at last we selected the right-hand road as tending, if anything,
slightly more in the direction of Boston “stump” than the other,
nevertheless it proved to be the wrong one, and we presently found
ourselves in a maze of byroads complicated with dykes. We were by no
means driving “straight on,” according to instructions, though we kept
the famous “stump” in view and ahead of us, now slightly to the right
and now to the left; but in time we found that we were gradually getting
nearer to it, which was satisfactory,--and, after all, we reasoned to
ourselves, it does not matter greatly how we progress, so long as we do
progress and we reach our destination and an inn before nightfall. Our
horses are going fresh, the country is interesting and full of
character, and would even probably be pronounced beautiful by a
Dutchman!

[Sidenote: _A MYSTERIOUS INSCRIPTION_]

So by “indirect, crooked ways” we reached Frampton, an out-of-the-world
village, a spot where one might go in search of peace when

            weary of men’s voices and their tread,
    Of clamouring bells and whirl of wheels that pass.

It seemed a place so very remote from “the busy haunts of men.” It
impressed us with its restful calm. Here by the side of the road stood
its ancient and picturesque church,--we had seen enough churches that
day to last for a whole tour, but somehow this rural fane so charmed us
that we felt we could not pass it by without a glance; and it was well
we did not, for here we made one of the most interesting discoveries of
our journey. Strolling round the graveyard in search of any curious
epitaph we noticed the quaint carving of a grotesque head on a buttress
of the north wall of the building. Upon closer inspection we further
discovered a puzzling inscription beneath this, which we made out to be
as follows:--

    ✠ Wot ye whi i stond
    Here for i forswor mi fat ...
    Ego Ricardus in
      Angulo.

We made out the inscription without difficulty, all but the last word of
the second line, which appears to begin “fat,” but the next letter or
letters are undecipherable. We hazarded a guess that the missing letter
might be “f” and that the word was intended for “faith,” but it might
equally well have ended with the letters “her” and so have read
“father.” At the time, however, we were inclined to the first rendering,
and concluded that the head above was meant to represent a monk who had
turned apostate, and, therefore, was placed there in the cold outside
the church, and made, like a naughty boy, to stand in the corner.

This grotesque figure with the enigmatical inscription below greatly
interested us, so much indeed that we resolved, if by any means it were
possible, to obtain the correct interpretation thereof. But we found,
somewhat to our surprise, that the few likely people of whom we inquired
were not even aware of the existence of such a thing in their
neighbourhood. However, after much searching, we heard of a certain
learned Lincolnshire antiquary who had long and carefully studied the
strange figure and legend; so on our return home we ventured to write
and ask him if he could throw any light upon the subject. To our request
we received a most courteous reply, an extract from which I hereby give,
as it is of much interest, even if it does not actually determine the
meaning of the curious bit of sculpturing: “It evidently records some
_local_ matter or scandal. Looking at the date of the building, and the
history of the parish simultaneously, I find a _Richard_ Welby, eldest
son of Sir Richard Welby, lived then, and that for some unknown cause he
was disinherited by his father and the estate went to his next brother.
If he ‘forswor’ either ‘faith’ or ‘father,’ the disinheritance _may_ be
accounted for, and also its chronicle below this figure in a civilian
cap (it may be either civilian or monkish, but I incline to the former).
Of course this is only supposition founded upon dates and local history,
and may be utterly wrong.”

[Sidenote: _A TOMBSTONE ENIGMA_]

The curious carvings and inscriptions that one comes upon ever and again
when exploring rural England are a source of great interest to the
traveller of antiquarian tastes, and there are many such scattered over
the land of a most puzzling nature. Take the following tombstone enigma,
for instance, to be found in Christchurch graveyard in Hampshire. Who
will unravel the hidden import of this most mysterious legend? I have
tried long and hard to arrive at some probable solution thereof but all
in vain.

    We were not slayne bvt rays’d,
      Rays’d not to life,
    But to be bvried twice
      By men of strife.
    What rest covld the living have
      When the dead had none.
    Agree amongst yov,
      Here we ten are one.

    H. Roger. died April 17. 1641.

                I. R.

Then again in the church of Great Gidding--a village we passed a little
to the left of our road before we reached Stilton--is another carved
enigma consisting of the following five Latin words arranged in the form
of a square thus:--

                               S A T O R
                               A R E P O
                               T E N E T
                               O P E R A
                               R O T A S

The meaning of this is not at all clear, to me at any rate. This puzzle
bears the date 1614. The following curious inscription, too, was pointed
out to me upon a flat, “broken and battered” tombstone that lies in the
churchyard of Upton near Slough: “Here lies the body of Sarah Bramstone
of Eton, spinster, who dared to be just in the reign of George the
Second. Obijt. Janry. 30, 1765, aetat 77.” One naturally asks who was
this Sarah Bramstone? These records in stone are hard to interpret. Even
old drinking vessels, that the wanderer in rural England occasionally
unearths, often possess significant inscriptions, as the following
example taken from a goblet of the Cromwellian period, I think,
sufficiently proves. This certainly suggests a Jacobean origin of our
national anthem:--

    God save the King, I pray
    God bless the King, I say;
        God save the King.
    Send him victorious,
    Happy and glorious,
    Soon to reign over us;
        God save the King.

A few more miles of level winding road through a wooded country brought
us in sight of the old historic town of Boston,--a name familiar in two
hemispheres. A jumble of red buildings, uneven-roofed, and grouped
together in artistic irregularity,

[Sidenote: _A POETIC PROSPECT_]

was presented to us; buildings quaint and commonplace, but all glorified
in colour by the golden rays of the setting sun, their warm tints being
enhanced by broad mysterious shadows of softest blue, mingled with which
was a haze of pearly-gray smoke--the very poetry of smoke, so film-like
and romantic it seemed. And over all there rose the tall tower of St.
Botolph’s stately fane, so etherealised by the moist light-laden
atmosphere that it looked as unsubstantial as the building of a dream,
whilst near at hand tapering masts, tipped with gold, and ruddy sails
told of the proximity of the sea. The ancient town had a strangely
medieval look, as though we had somehow driven backwards into another
century, the glamour of the scene took possession of us, and we began to
dream delicious dreams, but just then came wafted on the stilly air the
sound of a far-away railway whistle, soft and subdued by distance truly,
but for all that unmistakable. The charm of illusion was over; it was a
sudden descent from the poetic to the prosaic. Still, perhaps in the
picturesque past the belated traveller would not have fared so well, so
comfortably, or so cleanly in his hostelry as did we in our
nineteenth-century one, where we found welcome letters awaiting us from
home that reached us by the grace of the modern iron horse! Speed is a
blessing after all, though it is the parent of much ugliness!




CHAPTER XIII

     The Fenland capital--Mother and daughter towns--“Boston stump”--One
     church built over another--The company at our inn--A desultory
     ramble--An ancient prison--The Pilgrim Fathers--The banks of the
     Witham--Hussey Tower--An English Arcadia--Kyme Castle--Benington--A
     country of many churches--Wrangle--In search of a ghost--A remote
     village--Gargoyles--The grotesque in art.


Boston, that proudly calls itself “the capital of Fenland,” struck us as
a quaint old town, prosperous and busy, but not restless, with somewhat
of a Dutch look about it, yet, notwithstanding, intensely English. A
dreamy place in spite of its prosperity, dreamy but not dull; quaint
perhaps rather than picturesque--a delightful, unspoilt old-world town,
with an indescribable flavour of the long-ago about it, a spot where the
poetry of a past civilisation lingers yet; a commercial town that is not
ugly!

St. Botolph’s town, as our American cousins love to call it, is one of
the shrines of the “Old Country,” competing for first place with
Stratford-on-Avon in the heart of the New England pilgrim, for is not
storied Boston the mother of its modern namesake across the wide
Atlantic? However, we know that “a prophet hath no honour in his own
country,” so whilst numberless American travellers have expressed their
delight at this old Lincolnshire town, and Longfellow and other American
poets have sung its praises in verse, the average Englishman appears to
regard it hardly at all, and scarcely ever to visit it except under
compulsion, and has even sung its dispraises in doggerel thus:--

            Boston! Boston!
    Thou hast naught to boast on
      But a grand sluice and a high steeple,
      A proud, conceited, ignorant people,
    And a coast where souls are lost on.

[Sidenote: _FROM TWO POINTS OF VIEW_]

But the charm of Boston, as indeed that of most places, depends upon
sentiment and seeing, whether you look upon it with poetic or prosaic
eyes. A famous English engineer once told me that he considered a modern
express locomotive a most beautiful thing, and it was so in his eyes!
“Unless a thing be strong it cannot be beautiful,” was his axiom.
Weakness, or even the idea of weakness, was an abomination to him, so
that the tumble-down cottage, with its uneven roof bent into graceful
curves that an artist so delights in, was simple ugliness to him.

It was meet that here we should “take our ease” in an ancient hostelry,
and that we should have our breakfast served in a pleasant low-ceilinged
parlour, whose panelled walls had an aroma of other days and other ways
about them, and suggested to our imaginative minds many a bit of
unrecorded romance. With a romancer’s license we pictured that
old-fashioned chamber peopled by past-time travellers who had come by
coach or had posted by private chaise, and mingled with these was a
bluff ship captain of the wild North Sea, all making merry over their
glasses and jokes. The modern traveller in the modern hotel is alas!
less sociable, and takes himself over seriously, and seldom even smiles.
But happily there seems to be something about the old English inn that
thaws the formality and taciturnity out of strangers. I think this must
be due to the sense of homeliness and comfort that pervades it, with the
delightful absence of all pretence and show.

From our inn we looked across the wide market square right on to the
splendid and spacious church with its tall and graceful tower, a
veritable triumph of the builder’s craft. It chanced to be market-day,
and so the large square was filled with stalls, and was chiefly in the
possession of picturesquely-clad country folk displaying their
goods,--fruits, flowers, vegetables, eggs, poultry, and the like, whilst
the townsfolk gathered round to make their purchases, the transactions
being carried on with much mutual bargaining and leisurely chattering;
and the hum of many blended voices came upwafted to us, not as a
disturbing noise, but with a slumberous sound as restful as the summer
droning of innumerable bees. The ear may be trained to listen with
pleasure, as well as the eye to discern with delight, and it is the
peace-suggesting country sounds, the clean, fresh air laden with sweet
odours from flower, field, and tree, as well as the vision, that cause a
rural ramble to be so rewarding and so enjoyable. There must surely be
something in the moist air of the Fenland that makes musical melody of
noises; for we noticed that even the clanging of bells, the shrill
whistling of locomotives, and the metallic rush of trains seemed
strangely and pleasantly mellowed there; moreover, the traffic on the
stony streets of Boston appeared subdued, and had none of that
nerve-irritating din that rises so often from the London thoroughfares.

[Sidenote: _FROM AN INN WINDOW_]

It was a morning of sunshine and shower, an April day that had lost
itself in September, and not readily shall I forget the shifting scene
below with its moving mosaic of colour, nor the effect of the constantly
changing light and shade on the stately church tower. Now it would be a
deep purple-gray, dark almost to blackness as seen against a mass of
white vapour, then suddenly it would be all lightened up to a pale
orange tint against a sombre rain-cloud, its tracery and sculpturings
outlined by the delicate shadows they cast, giving them a soft effect as
of stone embroidery. A wonderfully effective and beautiful structure is
this tower, and, in my opinion, after Salisbury’s soaring spire, the
most beautiful and graceful in England, which is saying much in a land
where so many fine examples of ecclesiastical architecture abound. This
splendid church of St. Botolph arose out of the piety and prosperity of
a past generation. History has it that it was built over a small Norman
church that formerly stood on the site, and that worship went on in the
earlier structure during the time of building, and not until the new
edifice was completed was the ancient one removed--a curious, and I
should imagine a unique fact, that may account for the great height and
size of the nave.

It being market-day, we sought the bar of our hotel for a while, in
order to study any odd characters we might perchance find gathered
there, and we discovered a curious mixture of agricultural and town
folk, with a sprinkling of seafaring men. The talk was as varied as the
company. During the general hum of conversation we could not help
noticing how many expressions were used manifestly of nautical origin,
though they were employed apparently wholly by landsmen in concerns
having no connection with the sea or shipping. We jotted down some of
these as follows, just as they came to us:--“He’s been on the rocks so
lately”; “he’s in smooth water now”; “it’s all plain sailing”; “it’s not
all above board”; “he had to take in sail”; “now stow that away”; “it
took the wind out of his sails”; “any port in a storm, you know”--and
others of a like nature. A civil engineer with whom we got into
conversation here, and who we gleaned was employed on the Fen drainage,
expressed his unstinted admiration for the old Roman embankment that
still follows the contour of a goodly portion of the Lincolnshire coast,
and was designed and constructed as a bulwark against the encroachments
of the sea, a purpose it has admirably served. This embankment, he told
us, was in the main as strong and serviceable, in spite of ages of
neglect, as when first raised all those long and eventful centuries ago;
and furthermore, he stated as his honest opinion that, in spite of all
our boasted advantages and progress, we could not to-day construct such
enduring work.

Wandering in a desultory fashion about the

[Sidenote: _THE MAKING OF HISTORY_]

rambling old town, we came across a quaint old half-timber building
known as Shodfriars Hall, that, with its gable-ends facing the street
and projecting upper stories, showed how picturesquely our ancestors
built. How pleasantly such an arrangement of gables breaks the skyline
and gives it an interest that is so sadly wanting in our modern towns!
Then we chanced upon the old town hall with its ancient and historic
prisons; these consist of iron cages ranged along one side of the gloomy
interior, cages somewhat resembling those that the lions and tigers are
accommodated with at the zoological gardens, but minus the light,
sunshine, and fresh air that the latter possess. Here in these small
cages, within the dark and dreary hall, some of the Pilgrim Fathers were
confined, and most uncomfortable they must have been; but they were men
with stout hearts and dauntless spirits--men who made history in spite
of circumstance! The sailing of the little ship _Mayflower_ from Boston,
in 1620, with the Pilgrim Fathers on board was at the time a seemingly
trivial event, yet it has left its mark in the annals of the world; and
in new America of to-day to trace your descent to one of that little and
humble band is to be more than lord, or duke, or king! Some there are
who have made light of the episode of the sailing of those few brave men
for an unknown world across the wide and stormy ocean solely because
they would be free:--

    Thou who makest the tale thy mirth,
    Consider that strip of Christian earth
    On the desolate shore of a sailless sea
    Full of terror and mystery,
    Half-redeemed from the evil hold
    Of the wood so dreary, and dark, and old,
    Which drank with its lips of leaves the dew
    When Time was young and the world was new,
    And wove its shadows with sun and moon,
    Ere the stones of Cheops were square and hewn--
    Think of the sea’s dread monotone,
    Of the mournful wail from the pinewood blown,
    Of the strange, vast splendours that lit the North,
    Of the troubled throes of the quaking earth,
    And the dismal tales the Indians told.

Seated safely and comfortably in a cosy arm-chair, how easy it is to
sneer!

Then wandering on we espied a charming specimen of old-world building in
the shape of an ancient grammar school, beautified with the bloom of
centuries, which was, we learnt by a Latin inscription thereon, built in
the year 1567. This interesting and picturesque structure is approached
from the road by a courtyard, the entrance to which is through a fine
old wrought-iron gateway. Verily Boston is a town of memories; its
buildings are histories, and oftentimes pictures!

Not far away, on the opposite side of the road, stands a
comfortable-looking red-brick building of two stories in the so-called
Queen Anne style. It is an unpretentious but home-like structure,
noteworthy as being the birthplace of Jean Ingelow, the popular
Lincolnshire poetess and novelist. Then to our right the houses ceased,
and the slow-gliding and, let it be honestly confessed, muddy river
Witham took their place. Here and there the stream was crossed by
ferry-boats, to which you descend by

[Illustration: A BIT OF BOSTON.]

[Sidenote: _RIVERSIDE BOSTON_]

wooden steps, and in which you are paddled over in that primitive but
picturesque old-fashioned manner at the cost of a penny. Here also, by
some timber landing-stages, were anchored sundry sea-beaten fishing
smacks that, with their red-tanned sails and sun-browned sailors on
board mending their nets, made a very effective picture, so effective
that we needs must spend a good hour sketching and photographing them
(an engraving of one of our sketches will be found herewith). Along the
banks of this river the artist may find ample material--“good stuff,” in
painter’s slang--for brush or pencil, and the amateur photographer a
most profitable hunting-ground. Even the old warehouses on the opposite
side of the river are paintable, being pleasing in outline and good in
colour--a fact proving that commercial structures need not of necessity
be ugly, though alas! they mostly are. Then rambling on in a
delightfully aimless fashion, at the same time keeping our eyes well
open for the picturesque, we chanced, in a field a little beyond the
outskirts of the town, upon an old ruined red-brick tower, standing
there alone in crumbling and pathetic solitude. We learnt that this was
called Hussey Tower, and that it was erected by Lord Hussey about 1500,
who was beheaded in the reign of Henry VIII. for being concerned in the
Lincolnshire rebellion. So one drives about country and learns or
re-learns history as the case may be.

We bade a reluctant good-bye to old-world and storied Boston one bright,
breezy morning, and soon found ourselves once again in the open country,
with all Nature around us sunny and smiling. Boston was interesting,
but the country was beautiful. The landscape had a delightfully fresh
look after the frequent showers of the previous day; the moisture had
brought out the colour and scent of everything. The air, wind-swept and
rain-washed, was clear, and cool, and sweet, and simply to breathe it
was a pleasure. As we journeyed on we rejoiced in the genial sunshine
and the balmy breezes that tempered its warmth and gently rustled the
leaves of the trees by the way, making a soft, subdued musical melody
for us, not unlike the sound of a lazy summer sea toying with some sandy
shore--breezes that, as they passed by, caused rhythmic waves to follow
one another over the long grasses in the fields, and set the sails of
the windmills near at hand and far away a-whirling round and round at a
merry pace.

Everywhere we glanced was movement, in things inanimate as well as
living; the birds, too, were in a lively mood, and much in welcome
evidence (what would the country be without birds? those cheery
companions of the lonely wanderer!). Even the fat rooks gave vent to
their feelings of satisfaction by contented if clamorous cawing as they
sailed by us in merry company overhead, for, be it noted, rooks can caw
contentedly and discontentedly, and the two caws are very different.
Rooks are knowing birds too, and they appear to possess a considerable
amount of what we term instinct. We all know the old saying that rats
desert an unseaworthy ship. Whether this be true or not I cannot tell,
but I believe that rooks desert an unsafe tree. I lived

[Sidenote: _THE WAYS OF ROOKS_]

near a rookery once, and studied their ways and character. There were
several nests in one big elm tree, a sturdy-looking tree, and apparently
a favourite with the rooks. One year, for a purpose I could not divine,
all the nests in this tree were deserted, and fresh ones built in
another elm near by. Within a few months after its desertion by the
rooks the former tree was blown down in an exceptionally heavy gale,
though, till the gale came, it had shown no signs of weakness. Other big
trees in the same wood were laid low at the same time, but not one of
those that the rooks inhabited was damaged even in branch.

The weather was simply perfect, the sky overhead was as blue as a June
sea; it was a joy to be in the country on such a day, when earth seemed
a veritable Paradise, and pain and death a bad dream. There is a virtue
at times in the art of forgetting! for, when the world looks so fair,
one desires to be immortal! “Around God’s throne,” writes Olive
Schreiner, “there may be choirs and companies of angels, cherubim and
seraphim rising tier above tier, but not for one of them all does the
soul cry aloud. Only, perhaps, for a little human woman full of sin that
it once loved.” So there may be golden cities in Paradise paved with
priceless gems, yet not for these does my soul hunger, but for the
restful green fields and the pastoral peacefulness of our English
Arcadia, with its musical melody of wandering streams and sense of
untold repose. Did not Mr. Andrew Carnegie, the American millionaire,
who once drove through the heart of England from Brighton to Inverness,
on arriving at the latter town, send a telegram to a friend, saying, “We
arrived at the end of _Paradise_ this evening”? There is something very
lovable about the English landscape; where grander scenes excite your
admiration, it wins your affections, and will not let them go again, it
nestles so near your heart. I have beheld the finest scenery the earth
has to show, oftentimes with almost awe-struck admiration, but only the
peace-bestowing English scenery have I ever felt to love!

About two miles on our way, and a little to the right of our road, we
observed Kyme’s ancient tower uprising amidst surrounding foliage; this
picturesque relic of past days gave a special interest and character to
the prospect with its flavour of old-world romance. The solitary tower
is all that remains of the once stately abode of the Kymes; it is now
incorporated with a homely farmstead, and tells its own story of fallen
fortunes.

Driving on we soon reached a wide dyke, which we crossed on an ancient
bridge; here a lonely wayside inn proclaimed itself on its sign with the
comprehensive title of “The Angler’s, Cyclist’s, and Traveller’s Rest.”
The dyke struck us, even on that bright sunshiny day, as being a dark
and dreary stretch of water of a cheerless leaden hue, embanked and
treeless. But the sullen waters of the dyke only acted as a foil to
enhance the bright beauty of the sun-suffused landscape all around, as
the shadow gives value to the light, and too much beauty is apt to cloy.
A picture may be too pretty. Said an art

[Sidenote: _THE USE OF UGLINESS!_]

critic once to Turner, “That’s a fine painting of yours, but why have
you got that ugly bit of building in the corner?” “Oh!” replied Turner,
“that’s to give value to the rest of the composition by way of contrast;
I made it ugly on purpose!” and Turner was right. Who enjoys the country
so much as the dweller in the unbeautiful smoke-stained streets of our
huge modern towns?

Shortly after this we reached the little village of Benington, which
boasted a large church having a fine old tower, a tower, however, that
ended abruptly without any architectural finish; presumably the ambition
of the early builders was greater than their means. Nowadays we have
improved upon the old ways--we build and complete without the means,
then we set to work to beg for the money, though the begging is not
always successful, as the following characteristic letter of Mr. Ruskin
shows, which he wrote in reply to a circular asking him to subscribe to
help to pay off some of the debt on a certain iron church:--

                              BRANTWOOD, CONISTON, LANCASHIRE,
                                                  _19th May 1886_.

     SIR--I am scornfully amused at your appeal to me, of all people in
     the world the precisely least likely to give you a farthing! My
     first word to all men and boys who care to hear me is--Don’t get
     into debt. Starve and go to heaven, but don’t borrow.... Don’t buy
     things you can’t pay for! And of all manner of debtors, pious
     people building churches they can’t pay for are the most detestable
     nonsense to me. Can’t you preach and pray behind the hedges, or in
     a sandpit, or in a coalhole first? And of all manner of churches
     thus idiotically built, iron churches are the damnablest to me....
     Ever, nevertheless, and in all this saying, your faithful servant,

                                                  JOHN RUSKIN.



Dear me, and when I think of it, how often am I not asked to subscribe
to help to pay off debts on churches, mostly, if not all, built by
contract, and adorned with bright brass fittings from Birmingham!

The ancient church at Benington, time-worn and gray, looked interesting,
and the interior would probably have repaid inspection, but the day was
so gloriously fine that our love of the open air and cheerful sunshine
quite overpowered our antiquarian tastes that sunny morning. Moreover,
we did not set out to see everything on our way unless inclined so to
do; ours was purely a pleasure tour, the mood of the moment was alone
our guide. By the side of the churchyard we noticed a square space
enclosed by a wall; we imagined that this must have been an old
cattle-pound, but when we passed by it was full of all kinds of rubbish,
as though it were the village dustbin.

Our road now wound through a very pleasant country, past busy windmills,
sleepy farmsteads, and pretty cottages, till we came to the hamlet of
Leake, where we observed another very fine church, of a size apparently
out of all proportion to the needs of the parish. It may often be noted
in Lincolnshire and the eastern counties generally how fine many of the
remote country churches are, and how often, alas! such fine
architectural monuments are in bad repair for want of sufficient funds
to properly maintain them, the surrounding population being purely
agricultural and poor; it is difficult to imagine that the population
could ever have been much greater, though it may have been wealthier.
The question arises, How came these grand and large churches to be
built, without any probability of their having a congregation at all
commensurate with their size?

[Sidenote: _A MATTER OF SENTIMENT_]

The country became now more open, and our road wound in and out of the
level meadows like the letter S, or rather like a succession of such
letters, thereby almost doubling the distance from point to point taken
in a straight line. We could only presume that the modern road followed
the uncertain route of the original bridle-path, which doubtless wound
in and out in this provokingly tortuous manner to avoid bad ground and
marshy spots. Were Lincolnshire a county in one of the United States, I
“guess” that this road would long ago have been made unpicturesquely
straight and convenient,--the practical American considers it a wicked
waste of energy to go two miles in place of one. His idea of road-making
resembles that of the ancient Romans in so far as the idea of both is to
take the nearest line between two places. “That’s the best road,”
exclaimed a prominent Yankee engineer, “that goes the most direct
between two places; beauty is a matter of seeing and sentiment, and to
me a straight line is a beautiful thing, because it best fulfils its
purpose.” So speaks the engineer. Both Nature and the artist, as a rule,
abhor straight lines.

The next village on our road was Wrangle; since we had left Boston we
had hardly been out of sight of a village or a church, but though the
villages were numerous they were small. Here at Wrangle again we found a
tiny collection of houses, out of which rose another fine and beautiful
church, the stones of which had taken upon themselves a lovely soft gray
with age. I think there is no country in the world where Time tones and
tints the stones of buildings so pleasantly as it does in England. The
people in this part of Lincolnshire should be good, if an ample supply
of fine churches makes for goodness. Still one can never be certain of
anything in this uncertain world, for does not the poet declare that--

    Wherever God erects a house of prayer,
    The Devil always builds a chapel there:
    And ’twill be found upon examination,
    The latter has the largest congregation.

We had been informed by a Lincolnshire antiquary, whom by chance we had
become acquainted with during the journey, that the rectory at Wrangle
was haunted by a ghost in the shape of a green lady, and that this ghost
had upon one occasion left behind her a memento of one of her nocturnal
visitations, in the shape of a peculiar ring--surely a singular, if not
a very irregular thing, for a spirit to do. Moreover, the enthusiastic
and good-natured antiquary most kindly gave us his card to be used as an
introduction to the rector, who he said would gladly give us all
particulars. The story interested us, and the opportunity that fortune
had placed in our way of paying a visit to a haunted house was too
attractive to be missed. So, bearing this story in mind, and finding
ourselves in Wrangle, we forthwith drove straight up to the rectory, an
old-fashioned

[Sidenote: _A DISAPPOINTMENT_]

building that had an ancient look, though perhaps not exactly one’s
ideal of a haunted house--still it would do. Having introduced ourselves
to the rector, and having explained the purport of our visit, just when
our expectations were raised to the utmost pitch, we received a dire
disappointment, for the rector, with a smile, informed us that he had
only recently come there and, so far, he had never seen the ghost, or
been troubled by it in any way. He had a dim sort of a recollection that
he had heard something about it from some one, and he would be glad to
learn further particulars. He did not even know which the haunted room
was, or whether it was the whole house that was supposed to be haunted
and not a particular chamber. “I am afraid,” he said, “your introduction
must have been intended for my predecessor, who possibly was well posted
up in the matter.” Certainly our introduction was of a very informal
nature, our antiquarian friend had simply written on the back of his
card, “Call on the rector of Wrangle, make use of my card, and he will
tell you all about the ghost.” Truly we felt just a trifle disappointed.
We had been on the trail of a ghost so often, yet had never been able to
run one to earth, and again it had eluded us! Possibly the rector
divined our feelings, for he cheerily exclaimed, “Well, I am sorry I
cannot show you what you want, but I can show you a very interesting
church.” Now we had not come to Wrangle to see a church, but a haunted
house, and a material ring left by an immaterial spirit, and we felt
somehow, if unreasonably, aggrieved at not finding these.

The church was truly interesting, though I fear we were hardly in the
mood to properly appreciate it. The rector pointed out to us in the east
window some old stained glass that had been reset in fragments there,
which he declared to be the finest old stained glass in Lincolnshire;
then he led us to the south porch, where he pointed out to us the quaint
and beautiful external carvings round the Early English south doorway,
which we observed was curiously trefoiled and decorated with dog-tooth
mouldings. It is a specimen of carving that any church might be proud to
possess; here, little seen and possibly never admired except by chance
comers like ourselves, it is wasting its beauty in the wilderness, for
the doorway is simply the entrance to the graveyard and appears not to
be much, if at all used, the congregation entering the church by the
north porch. On the north wall we observed a fine, not to say
ostentatious, altar-tomb to Sir John Read and his lady dated 1626. This
takes up, profitably or unprofitably, a good deal of room. Below on a
verse we read the following tribute to the underlying dead:--

    Whom love did linke and nought but death did dessever,
    Well may they be conioind and ly together,
    Like turtle doves they livd Chaste pure in mind,
    Fewe, O, too few such couples we shall find.

You have to get used to the archaic spelling of some of these old
tombstone inscriptions, but this one is comparatively clear. Our
ancestors evidently did not set much score on spelling, for on a
stately seventeenth-century monument I have actually noticed the same
word spelt in three different ways. Above Sir John Read’s fine
altar-tomb is suspended a helmet with a crest coloured proper, only the
helmet is not a genuine one, being of plaster! and the plaster has got
cracked, and therefore the sham is revealed to the least observant; so
the whole thing looks ridiculous! Possibly, however, this was merely
intended for a temporary funeral helmet, and would have been removed in
due course but had been forgotten.

[Sidenote: _CURIOUS GARGOYLES_]

In the pavement we noticed a slab containing an interesting brass dated
1503, to “Iohn Reed marchant of ye stapell of Calys, and Margaret his
wyfe.” Their eight sons and five daughters are also shown upon it. Round
this slab run portions of an inscription in old English. It is
unfortunate that this is incomplete, for it appears to be quaint.

On leaving the church we observed with pleasure that the ancient and
curious gargoyles that project from its roof still serve the purpose for
which they were originally constructed, and have not been improved away,
or suffered the common indignity of being converted into rain-water
heads. Who invented the gargoyle, I wonder? A monk, I’ll wager, if I
have read past ecclesiastical architecture aright. And all lovers of the
quaintly decorative are under great obligations to the unknown monk, for
gargoyles offered an irresistible opportunity for the medieval craftsman
to outwardly express his inmost fancies and the artistic spirit that
consumed his soul, and must somehow be visibly revealed. He was jocular
at times, even to the verge of profanity. Possibly because gargoyles
were outside the sacred edifice, he felt more at liberty to do as he
would, so he created wonderful monsters, grinning good-natured-looking
demons in place of saints; demons that seemed verily to exist and
breathe and struggle in stone; his subtle art contrived to make even the
hideous delightful and to be desired. So great was his genius, so
cunning his chisel that when I look upon his handiwork, oftentimes I
gaze with astonished admiration at his rare skill and inventive
faculties, and I sadly wonder whether we shall ever look upon his like
again. His art was the outcome of love. Our modern art seems of unhappy
necessity imbued with the commercial spirit of the age. Men now paint
and sculpture to live, the medieval art craftsman lived to work; the one
labours to live, the other loved to labour. The highest art, the
worthiest work, cannot be produced for gold, it comes alone from love,
love that is unembarrassed with the thought of having to provide the
necessaries of life. Where anxiety steps in, art suffers, then
withers--and dies! Some years ago I was showing a now popular artist an
old picture by Francesco Francia on panel that I possess, and asked him
how it was, apart from the almost painful truthfulness of the drawing,
that the colours had remained so fresh and pure in tint, after all the
years it had existed, whilst so many modern pictures lose so much of
their first brilliancy in comparatively so short a time. He replied,
after examining the picture, that it had been painted, then smoothed
down, and re-painted many times, each after an interval to allow the
pigments to dry hard, and that it had taken years in place of months to
complete. “Now were I to paint like that I should simply starve, and
possibly be called a fool for my pains--and man must live, you know, to
say nothing of rent, rates, and taxes. When I began life I was young and
enthusiastic, and, as you know, painted in a garret for love and
possible fame which came too tardily” (I have a painting the artist did
in those happy early days, pronounced by competent critics to be worthy
of a great master); “but love did not butter my bread nor provide me
with a decent home, so at last I was compelled to paint for popularity
and profit. Now I possess a fine studio and fashionable patrons, whose
portraits I paint without pleasure but I live at ease--yet sometimes I
sigh for those old times when things were otherwise.”

[Sidenote: _AN ARTIST’S TALE_]




CHAPTER XIV

     Wind-blown trees--Marshlands--September weather--Wainfleet--An
     ancient school--The scent of the sea--The rehabilitation of the
     old-fashioned ghost--A Lincolnshire mystery--A vain search--Too
     much alike--Delightfully indefinite--Halton Holgate--In quest of a
     haunted house.


Leaving Wrangle, the country to our right became still more open; for
the rest of our way we followed the changeful line of the sea-coast at a
distance of about a mile or more inland. The wind, coming unrestrained
from the seaward over the flat marsh-like meadow lands, bore to us the
unmistakable flavour of the “briny,” its bracing and refreshing salt
breath, cool and tonic-laden, was very grateful to our lungs after the
soft, soothing country airs that we had been so long accustomed to. The
trees here, what few trees there existed that is, were stunted,
tortured, and wind-blown to one side; but strangely enough, not as is
usually the case, bent inward from the sea but towards it, plainly
proving that the strong gales and prevailing winds in this quarter are
from the land side, thus reversing the general order of things on our
coasts.

Another notable feature of our road--in marked contrast with the early
portion of our stage out from Boston--was the fact that for the next
nine miles or

[Sidenote: _A LONELY COUNTRY_]

so on to our night’s destination at Wainfleet we passed no villages and
saw no churches. It was a lonely stretch of road; for company we had,
besides the stunted trees, only the wide earth and open sky; but such
loneliness has its charms to the vigorous mind, it was all so suggestive
of space and freedom, begetful of broad thinking and expanded views. To
look upon Nature thus is to make one realise the littleness of the minor
worries of life. The mind is too apt to get cramped at times by cramped
surroundings, the vision impresses the brain more than most people are
aware. The wild, far-reaching marshlands to our right had a peculiarly
plaintive look. Across them the mighty gleams of golden sunlight swept
in utter silence, succeeded by vast purple-gray shadows blown out into
the eternity of blue beyond: movement of mighty masses but no sound, yet
one is so accustomed in this world to associate movement with sound that
the ear waits for the latter as something that should follow though it
comes not. The prospect was to a certain extent desolate, yet not
dreary; the golden green of the long autumn grasses tossing in the wind,
the many bright-hued marsh-flowers made the wild waste look almost gay,
so splashed with colour was it over all! The vast level landscape
stretching away and away to the vague far-off horizon that seemed to
fade there into a mystic nothingness--neither earth, nor sea, nor
sky--excited within us a sentiment of vastness that words are inadequate
to convey, a sentiment very real yet impossible wholly to analyse. One
cannot describe the indescribable, and of such moods of the mind one
feels the truth of the poet’s dictum that “What’s worth the saying can’t
be said.”

Nature here wore an unfamiliar aspect to us; the wide marshland was
beautiful, but beautiful with a strange and novel beauty. Now and then
were infrequent sign-posts, old and leaning, each with one solitary arm
pointing eastward, laconically inscribed “To the Sea,” not to any house
or hamlet be it noticed. They might as well have been inscribed, it
seemed to us in our philosophy, “To the World’s end!” Here the black
sleek rooks and restless white-winged gulls appeared to possess a common
meeting ground; the rooks for a wonder were quiet, being silently busy,
presumably intent after worms; not so the gulls, for ever and again some
of them would rise and whirl round and round, restlessly uttering
peevish cries the while. Neither the cry of gull nor caw of rook are
musical; in truth, they are grating and harsh, yet they are suggestive
of the open air, and are, therefore, pleasing to the ear of the
town-dweller, and lull him to rest in spite of their discordance with a
sense of deep refreshment.

Shakespeare sings of “the uncertain glory of an April day.” He might,
even with greater truth, have written September in place of April; for
in the former month the weather is just as changeful, and the skies are
finer with more vigorous cloud-scapes; then, too, the fields and foliage
“have put their glory on,” and at times under a sudden sun-burst,
especially in the clear air that comes after rain, the many-tinted woods
become a miracle of colour such that the painter with the richest
palette cannot realise. We were reminded of “the uncertain glory of a
_September_ day” by a sudden, wholly unexpected, and unwelcome change
that had taken place in the weather. In front of us were gradually
gathering great banks of sombre clouds that might mean rain; the wind as
suddenly had lost its gentleness and blew wild and fitfully, but still
the sun was shining brightly all around, converting the winding
water-ways and reed-encircled pools of the marshlands into glowing gold.
The strong effect of the sunlight on the landscape contrasting with the
low-toned gray sky ahead was most striking. But the outlook suggested to
us that it would be wiser to hasten on than to loiter about admiring the
prospect, for it was a shelterless region. So we sped along to the merry
music of the jingling harness, and the measured clatter of our horses’
hoofs on the hard roadway, rounding the many corners with a warning note
from the horn, and a pleasant swing of the dog-cart that showed the pace
we were going.

[Sidenote: _WILD WEATHER_]

    A low, gray sky, a freshing wind,
      A cold scent of the misty sea
    Before, the barren dunes; behind,
      The level meadows far and free.

The approach to Wainfleet was very pretty; just before the town a
welcome wood came into sight, then a stream of clear running water
crossed by a foot-bridge, next a tall windmill which we passed close by,
so close that we could hear the swish, swish, swish of its great sails
as they went hurtling round and round in mighty sweeps; at that moment
the rain came down, and, though we reached our inn directly afterwards
we managed to get pretty wet outwardly during the few minutes’ interval.
However, the good-hearted landlady greeted her dripping guests with a
ready smile, and ushered us into a tiny, cosy sitting-room, wherein she
soon had a wood fire blazing a cheery and ruddy welcome, “just to warm
us up a bit.” Thoughtful and kindly landlady, may you prosper and live
long to welcome hosts of other travellers! Then “to keep out the cold”
(we had no fear of cold, but no matter), a hot cup of tea with _cream_,
rich country cream and buttered toast, made its unexpected but not
unwelcome appearance, so though our hostel was small and primitive in
keeping with the town, we felt that we might have fared much worse in
far more pretentious quarters. Looking round our chamber we observed
that the door opened with a latch instead of a handle, a trifle that
somehow pleased us, one so seldom comes upon that kind of fastening
nowadays, even in remote country places.

Soon the storm cleared away, and the sun shone forth quite cheerily
again, and though now low in the yellowing western sky, still it shone
brilliantly enough to entice us out of doors. We discovered Wainfleet to
be a sleepy little market-town, and a decayed seaport--a town with some
quaint buildings of past days, not exactly a picturesque place but
certainly an interesting one. Wainfleet is a spot where the hand of Time
seems not only to be stayed but put back long years; it should be dear
to the heart of an antiquary, for it looks so genuinely ancient, so far
removed from the modern world and all its rush, bustle, and advantages!
It is a spot that might be called intolerably dull, or intensely
restful, according to the mind and mood of man. We deemed it the latter,
but then we only stopped there a few waking hours (one cannot count the
time one sleeps); had we remained longer perhaps we might have thought
differently!

[Sidenote: _AN ANCIENT COLLEGE_]

First we made our way to the market square, which, by the way, we had
all to ourselves, except for a sleeping dog. In the centre of the square
stands the tall and weather-stained shaft of an ancient cross, elevated
on a basement of four steps. The top of the shaft is now surmounted by a
stone ball in place of the cross of old. This is capped by a
well-designed weather-vane; so this ancient structure, raised by
religious enthusiasm, and partially destroyed by religious
reforming--deforming, some people will have it--zeal, now serves a
useful and picturesque purpose, and could hardly be objected to by the
sternest Puritan.

Then, wandering about, we espied a fine old brick building of two
stories, the front being flanked by octagonal towers, a building not
unlike Eton College Chapel on a smaller scale. This proved to be
Magdalen School, founded in the fifteenth century by the famous William
de Waynflete, Bishop of Winchester, 1459, who was born in the town and
who also founded Magdalen College, Oxford, which little history we
picked up accidentally that evening in an odd copy of a Lincolnshire
Directory we discovered at our hotel. We did not hunt it up of set
purpose. I mention this, not wishing to be considered didactic. The
building, after all the years bygone, still serves its ancient purpose,
more fortunate than many other foundations in this respect whose funds
have been diverted to different aims from those originally intended,
sometimes perhaps of necessity, but other times, and not seldom, I fear,
without such compulsory or sufficient cause. We were told that the top
story of this very interesting bit of old-time architecture was the
school, and the ground floor the master’s house, a curious arrangement.
“Just you ring the bell at the door,” exclaimed our informant, “and I’m
sure the master will show you over; it’s a funny old place within.” But
we did not like to intrude; moreover, it was getting late and the
gloaming was gathering around.

Resuming our wanderings we found ourselves eventually by the side of the
narrow river Steeping, up which the small ships of yore used to make
their way to the then flourishing port of Wainfleet, or Waynflete as the
ancient geographers quaintly had it. There we rested that warm September
evening watching, in a dreamy mood, the tranquil gliding and gleaming of
the peaceful river, listening to the soothing, liquid gurgling of its
quiet flowing water. There was something very poetic about the spot that
caused us to weave romances for ourselves, a change from reading them
ready-made in novels! So we rested and romanced

    While the stars came out and the night wind
    Brought up the stream
    Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea.

We had so far been disappointed in our search

[Sidenote: _THE LAW ON GHOSTS!_]

after a haunted house this journey, but, nothing daunted, the following
morning we set forth on the same errand, having heard that there was “a
real haunted house” at Halton Holgate, a village situated about eight
miles from Wainfleet. Haunted houses are strangely coming into note and
repute again; I really thought their day was over for ever, but it seems
not so. The good old-fashioned ghost that roams about corridors, and
stalks in ancient chambers till cock-crowing time; the ghost of our
ancestors and the early numbers of the Christmas illustrated papers; the
ghost that groans in a ghastly manner, and makes weird “unearthly”
noises in the middle of the night, appears once more much in
evidence,--I had nearly said “had come to life again”! He is even
written about seriously and complainingly to the papers! In a long
letter to the _Standard_ that appeared therein on 22nd April 1896 under
the heading of “A Haunted House,” the writer gravely laments his lot in
having unwittingly taken a lease of a house from which he and his family
were driven, solely on account of the ghostly manifestations that took
place there! The letter, which I afterwards learnt was written in
absolutely good faith and was no hoax, commences: “In the nineteenth
century ghosts are obsolete, but they are costing me two hundred pounds
a year. I have written to my lawyer, but am told by him that the English
law does not recognise ghosts!” The reading of this caused me to open my
eyes in wonderment, the assertions were simply astonishing. Still the
law seemed sensible; if any man were allowed to throw up an
inconvenient lease on the plea of ghosts where should we be? The writer
of the letter, it appears, was an officer in the English army. “Some
time ago,” he proceeds, “I left India on furlough, and, being near the
end of my service, looked out for a house that should be our home for a
few years.... I may say that I am not physically nervous. I have been
under fire repeatedly, have been badly wounded in action, and have been
complimented on my coolness when bullets were flying about. I was not
then afraid of ghosts as far as I knew. I had often been in places where
my revolver had to be ready to my hand.... As winter drew on and the
nights began to lengthen, strange noises began to be heard.... The
governess used to complain of a tall lady, with black heavy eyebrows,
who used to come as if to strangle her as she lay in bed. She also
described some footsteps, which had passed along the corridor by her
door, of some one apparently intoxicated. But in fact no one had left
their rooms, and no one had been intoxicated. One night the housemaid,
according to her account, was terrified by a tall lady with heavy dark
eyebrows, who entered the room and bent over her bed. Another night we
had driven into the town to a concert. It was nearly midnight when we
returned. Our old Scotch housekeeper, who admitted us, a woman of iron
nerves, was trembling with terror. Shortly before our arrival a horrible
shriek had rung through the house. To all our questions she only
replied, “It was nothing earthly.” The nurse, who was awake with a
child with whooping-cough, heard the cry, and says it was simply
horrible. One night, lying awake, I distinctly saw the handle of my
bedroom door turned, and the door pushed open. I seized my revolver, and
ran to the door. The lamp in the long corridor was burning brightly, no
one was there, and no one could have got away. Now I can honestly say
there is nothing against the house but ghosts. It is a roomy, nice, dry
house. There are no ghosts. Are there not?” This is truly astonishing
reading considering, as I have already stated, that I know the
communication was made in perfectly good faith. A brave soldier to be
driven out of a very comfortable and suitable home by a ghost--for thus
the story ended!

[Sidenote: _EXTRAORDINARY HAPPENINGS_]

For curiosity I cut out this letter and pasted it in my Commonplace
Book. The subject had almost slipped my memory, when, just before
starting on our present tour, I read in the _Standard_ of 30th August
1897 of another haunted house in Lincolnshire. The account was long and
circumstantial; having perused it carefully I took note of all
particulars, determining to visit the house, if possible, and to see if
by any means one could elucidate the mystery. As it may interest my
readers, I venture here to quote the article _in extenso_; the more am I
induced to do this as it happened we did manage to inspect the house at
our leisure, and had besides a long conversation with Mrs. Wilson, who
claims to have actually seen the ghost! But I am getting previous. It
will be noted that the account is of some length, and that the story
was not dismissed by the editor of the _Standard_ in a mere paragraph.
This then it is:--

     From Halton Holgate, a village near Spilsby, Lincolnshire, comes a
     story which is causing some sensation among the country folk in the
     neighbourhood. For some time rumours of human bones having been
     discovered under a brick floor of a farm, near the village, of
     strange tappings having been heard, and of a ghost having been
     seen, have been afloat, and it was with the intention of trying to
     sift the mystery that a Lincoln reporter has just visited the
     scene. The farmstead where the sounds are said to have been heard,
     and the ghost seen, stands some distance back from the high road,
     and is occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Wilson and their servant man. On
     being interviewed Mrs. Wilson was at first reluctant to make any
     statement, but eventually she narrated the following story:--

     “We came here on Lady-day. The first night or so we heard very
     strange noises about midnight, as though some one was knocking at
     the doors and walls. Once it seemed as though some one was moving
     all the things about in a hurry downstairs. Another time the noise
     was like a heavy picture falling from the wall; but in the morning
     I found everything as right as it was the night before. The servant
     man left, saying he dared not stop, and we had to get another. Then
     about six weeks ago, I saw ‘something.’ Before getting into bed, my
     husband having retired before me, I thought I would go downstairs
     and see if the cow was all right, as it was about to calve. I did
     so, and when at the foot of the stairs, just as I was about to go
     up again, I saw an old man standing at the top and looking at me.
     He was standing as though he was very round-shouldered. How I got
     past I cannot say, but as soon as I did so I darted into the
     bedroom and slammed the door. Then I went to get some water from
     the dressing-table, but ‘feeling’ that some one was behind me I
     turned round sharply, and there again stood the same old man. He
     quickly vanished, but I am quite certain I saw him. I have also
     seen him several times since, though not quite so distinctly.”

     Mrs. Wilson conducted her interviewer to the sitting-room where
     the figure appeared. The floor in one corner was very uneven, and a
     day or two ago Mrs. Wilson took up the bricks, with the intention
     of relaying them. When she had taken them up she perceived a
     disagreeable smell. Her suspicions being aroused, she called her
     husband, and the two commenced a minute examination. With a stick
     three or four bones were soon turned over, together with a gold
     ring and several pieces of old black silk. All these had evidently
     been buried in quicklime, the bones and silk having obviously been
     burned therewith. The search after this was not further prosecuted,
     but a quantity of sand introduced and the floor levelled again. Dr.
     Gay, to whom the bones were submitted, stated that they were
     undoubtedly human, but he believed them to be nearly one hundred
     years old.

[Sidenote: _A GHOST MYSTERY_]

Now it happened, whilst we were at Boston, that we purchased a copy of
the _Standard_ of 13th September 1897. On glancing over this our eyes
caught sight of the following further and later particulars of this
haunted dwelling, now exalted into “The Lincolnshire Ghost Mystery.” The
account brought up to date ran thus:--

     A Lincoln Correspondent writes: “Despite all efforts, the
     Lincolnshire ghost mystery still remains unravelled. That the
     noises nightly heard cannot be ascribed to rats has been amply
     demonstrated, and other suggestions when acted upon likewise fail
     to elucidate the matter. All over the country the affair has
     excited the greatest interest, and two London gentlemen have
     written asking for permission to stay a night in the house. Other
     letters have been received from ‘clairvoyants’ asking for pieces of
     the silk or one of the bones discovered under the floor, whilst a
     London clergyman has written advising Mrs. Wilson to bury the bones
     in consecrated ground, then, he says, ‘the ghostly visitor will
     trouble you no longer.’ The owner of the house in question--a
     farmstead at Halton Holgate, near Spilsby--has tried to throw
     discredit on the whole affair, but such efforts have failed, and it
     now transpires that the house was known to be haunted fully thirty
     years ago.”

The mystery had quite a promising look; and, coming across this second
account of it just as we were approaching the neighbourhood of the scene
of ghostly doings, raised our curiosity still more, and increased our
determination not to miss this rare opportunity of inspecting a
genuine(?) haunted house. See it somehow we must! Now it occurred to us
that, as Halton Holgate was within easy distance of Wainfleet, our
landlord would surely know something about the story and the people, and
that he might enlighten us about sundry details. So in the morning,
before starting, we interviewed him in his snug bar, and having shown
him the cuttings from the _Standard_ that we had brought with us,
awaited his comments. “Oh yes,” he began, “I’ve heard the story, but do
not put much account on it myself, nor do I believe any one else about
here does. I think the London papers put more store on it than we do.
They say noises have been heard in the house at night. Well, you see,
sir, the house stands on the top of a hill, and is very exposed to the
wind. I’ve been told that there is a small trap-door in the roof at the
top of the staircase, which is, or was, quite loose, and at the foot of
the staircase is the front door, and they say that when the wind blows
at all strong it gets under the door and lifts the trap up and down, and
this accounts for the noises, perhaps there may be rats as well. I fancy
the noises frightened the woman when she first went into the house, and
she imagined the rest. At least that’s my view of the matter from all
I’ve heard.” Manifestly the landlord was unbelieving; truly we too were
sceptical, but even so, we thought the landlord’s explanation of the
nightly noises rather weak, notwithstanding his further remark that he
thought the woman was very nervous, and the house being in a lonely
situation made her the more so when she was left in it by herself at
times, as she frequently was on their first coming there. “But that
hardly accounts for her _seeing_ the ghost,” we exclaimed. “Oh! well, I
just put that down to nerves; I expect she got frightened when she went
there at first, and, as I’ve said, imagined the rest. I don’t believe in
ghosts seen by other people.” “And what about the human bones?” we
queried. “Well, as to the bones, they say as how when the house was
built some soil was taken from the churchyard to fill up the
foundations, and that fact would account for the finding of them.”

[Sidenote: _INQUIRIES_]

It certainly seemed to us that the landlord’s theory and explanations
rather added to the mystery than helped to clear it up in any way; his
reasonings were hardly convincing. We noted one thing in the landlord’s
arguments that appeared to us almost as improbable as the ghost story,
namely, the way he so readily accounted for the existence of human bones
under the floor by the removal of soil from the churchyard, the latter
we afterwards discovered being about a mile away from the place; and
even allowing such a thing to be permitted at the time of the building
of the house--perhaps, by rough guess, some fifty years ago--such a
proceeding was most unlikely, as soil could be had close at hand for the
digging.

We felt that now we must wait till we got to Halton Holgate for further
details. We had an introduction to the rector of the parish there, and
we looked forward to hearing his view’s on the matter, for surely he of
all people, we reasoned, would be in a position to help us to unravel
the mystery. Matters were getting interesting; at last it seemed, after
long years of search, that we should be able to run a real “haunted”
house to earth; and we determined, if by any means we could arrange to
do so, that we would spend a night therein. It would be a novel
experience; indeed we felt quite mildly excited at the prospect. Failing
this, it would be something if we could converse with a person who
declared that she had seen an actual ghost, and who would describe to us
what it was like, how it behaved itself, and so forth! We had come
across plenty of people in the world, from time to time, who declared to
us that they once knew somebody who said that they had seen a ghost, but
we could never discover the actual party; for some cause or another he
or she was never get-at-able, and I prefer my facts--or fiction--first
hand. Stories, like wine, have a wonderful way of improving with age;
indeed I think that most stories improve far more rapidly than wine. I
once traced a curious three-year-old story back home to the place of its
birth, and the original teller did not even recognise his offspring in
its altered and improved garb! Tradition is like ivy; give it time and
it will completely disguise the original structure.

[Sidenote: _A TALL WINDMILL_]

The weather being fine and having finished our interview with our
landlord, we started off without further delay, anxious to have as much
time as possible before us for our day’s explorations. The country still
continued level, the road winding in and out thereof, as though
determined to cover twice as much ground as needful in getting from
place to place. Just beyond Wainfleet we passed, close to our way, the
tallest windmill I think I have ever seen; it looked more like a
lighthouse with sails attached than a proper windmill; it was presumably
so built to obtain all the breezes possible, as in a flat country the
foliage of the growing trees around is apt to deprive a mill of much of
its motive power. In fact an Essex miller once told me that owing to the
growth of the trees around his mill since it was first built, he could
hardly ever work it in the summer time on account of the foliage robbing
him of so much wind. Then as we drove on we caught a peep of low wooded
hills ahead, showing an uneven outline, faintly blue, with touches of
orange here and there where the sun’s rays rested on the golden autumn
leafage, now lighting up one spot, now another. We were delighted to
observe that our road led apparently in the direction of these hills,
for they gave promise of pleasant wanderings.

Farther on we reached a pretty little village, with its church
picturesquely crowning a knoll. Here we pulled up for a moment to ask
the name of the place from a man at work by the roadside. “This be
I-r-b-y,” he responded, spelling not pronouncing the name, somewhat to
our surprise; so we asked him why he did so. “Well, sir, you see there
be another village not far off called Orby, only it begins with a ‘O’
and ours begins with a ‘I,’ and the names do sound so alike when you
speaks them, that we generally spells them to strangers to make sure.
Often folk comes here who wants to go to Orby, and often folk who wants
to come here gets directed to Orby. One of the names ought to be
changed, it would save a lot of trouble and loss of temper.” Then we
asked him how far it was to Halton Holgate, and he said he thought it
was about three miles, but he was not quite sure, not being a good judge
of distances; “it might be more or it might be less,” which was rather
vague. Indeed we noticed generally in Lincolnshire how hard it was to
obtain a precise reply to any query as to distance. Here is a sample of
a few of the delightfully indefinite answers made to us from time to
time when seeking information on this point. “Oh! not very far.” “Some
goodish bit on yet.” “Just a little farther on.” “A longish way off.” “A
few miles more.” To the last reply a further query as to how many miles
only brought the inconclusive response, “Oh! not many.”

In due time we bade good-bye to the level country, for our road now led
us up quite a respectable hill and through a rock cutting that was
spanned at one point by a rustic bridge. It was a treat to see the great
gray strong rocks after our long wandering in Fenland. The character of
the

[Illustration: AN OLD-TIME FARMSTEAD.]

scenery was entirely changed, we had touched the fringe of the Wold
region, the highlands of Lincolnshire--“Wide, wild, and open to the
air.” At the top of the hill we arrived at a scattered little village,
and this proved to be Halton Holgate. The church stood on one side of
the road, the rectory on the other; to the latter we at once made our
way, trusting to learn something authoritative about the haunted house
from the rector, and hoping that perhaps we might obtain an introduction
to the tenant through him. Unfortunately the rector was out, and not
expected back till the evening. This was disappointing. The only thing
to do now was to find our way to the house, and trust to our usual good
fortune to obtain admission and an interview with the farmer’s wife.

[Sidenote: _QUESTIONING A NATIVE_]

We accosted the first native we met. Of him we boldly asked our way to
the “haunted house,” for we did not even know the name of it. But our
query was sufficient, evidently the humble homestead had become famous,
and had well established its reputation. We were directed to a footpath
which we were told to follow across some fields, “it will take you right
there.” Then we ventured to ask the native if he had heard much about
the ghost. He replied laconically, “Rather.” Did he believe in it?
“Rather” again. We were not gaining much by our queries, the native did
not appear to be of a communicative nature, and our attempts to draw him
out were not very successful. To a further question if many people came
to see the house, we received the same reply. Manifestly for some
reason the native was disinclined to discuss the subject. This rather
perplexed us, for on such matters the country folk, as a rule, love to
talk and enlarge. As he left us, however, he made the somewhat
enigmatical remark, “I wish as how we’d got a ghost at our house.” Was
he envious of his neighbour’s fame? we wondered, or what did he mean?
Could he possibly deem that a ghost was a profitable appendage to a
house on the show principle, insomuch as it brought many people to see
it? Or were his remarks intended to be sarcastic?

Having proceeded some way along the footpath we met a clergyman coming
along. We at once jumped to the conclusion that he must be the rector,
so we forthwith addressed him as such; but he smilingly replied, “No,
I’m the Catholic priest,” and a very pleasant-looking priest he was, not
to say jovial. We felt we must have our little joke with him, so
exclaimed, “Well, never mind, you’ll do just as well. We’re
ghost-hunting. We’ve heard that there’s a genuine haunted house
hereabouts, an accredited article, not a fraud. We first read about it
in the _Standard_, and have come to inspect it. Now, can you give us any
information on the point? Have you by any chance been called in to lay
the ghost with candle, bell, and book? But perhaps it is a Protestant
ghost beyond Catholic control?” Just when we should have been serious we
felt in a bantering mood. Why, I hardly know, but smile on the world and
it smiles back at you. Now the priest had smiled on us, and we
retaliated. Had he been austere, probably we should have been grave.
Just then this ghost-hunting expedition struck us as being intensely
comical. The priest smiled again, we smiled our best in reply. We
intuitively felt that his smile was a smile of unbelief--in the ghost, I
mean. “Well, I’m afraid,” he replied, “the worthy body is of a romantic
temperament. I understand that the bones are not human bones after all,
but belonged to a deceased pig. You know in the off-season gigantic
gooseberries, sea-serpents, and ghosts flourish in the papers. You
cannot possibly miss the house. When you come to the end of the next
field, you will see it straight before you,” and so we parted. Somehow
the priest’s remarks damped our ardour; either he did not or would not
take the ghost seriously!

[Sidenote: _GHOST-HUNTING_]




CHAPTER XV

     In a haunted house--A strange story--A ghost described!--An offer
     declined--Market-day in a market-town--A picturesque crowd--Tombs
     of ancient warriors--An old tradition--Popular errors--A chat by
     the way--The modern Puritan--A forgotten battle-ground--At the sign
     of the “Bull.”


Reaching the next field we saw the house before us, a small, plain,
box-like structure of brick, roofed with slate, and having a tiny
neglected garden in front divided from the farm lands by a low wall. An
unpretentious, commonplace house it was, of the early Victorian small
villa type, looking woefully out of place in the pleasant green country,
like a tiny town villa that had gone astray and felt uncomfortable in
its unsuitable surroundings. At least we had expected to find an
old-fashioned and perhaps picturesque farmstead, weathered and gray,
with casement windows and ivy-clad walls. Nothing could well have been
farther from our ideal of a haunted dwelling than what we beheld; no
high-spirited or proper-minded ghost, we felt, would have anything to do
with such a place, and presuming that he existed, he at once fell in our
estimation--we despised him! I frankly own that this was not the proper
spirit in which to commence our investigations--we ought to have kept an
open mind, free from prejudice. Who were we that we should judge what
was a suitable house for a ghost to haunt? But it did look so prosaic,
and looks count for so much in this world! The flat front of the house
was pierced with five sash windows, three on the top story and two on
the ground floor below, with the doorway between,--the sort of house
that a child first draws.

[Sidenote: _A SUCCESSFUL SEARCH_]

We did not enter the little garden, nor approach the regulation front
door, for both had the appearance of being seldom used, but, wandering
around, we came upon a side entrance facing some farm outbuildings. We
ventured to knock at the door here, which was opened by the farmer’s
wife herself, as it proved; the door led directly into the kitchen,
where we observed the farmer seated by the fireplace, apparently
awaiting his mid-day dinner. We at once apologised for our intrusion,
and asked if it were the haunted house that we had read accounts of in
the London papers, and, if so, might we be allowed just to take a glance
at the haunted room? “This is the haunted house,” replied the farmer
with emphasis, “and you can see over it with pleasure if you like; the
wifie will show you over.” So far fortune favoured us. The “wifie” at
the time was busily occupied in peeling potatoes “for the men’s meal,”
she explained, “but when I’ve done I’ll be very glad to show you over
and tell you anything.” Thereupon she politely offered us a chair to
rest on whilst she completed her culinary operations. “I must get the
potatoes in the pot first,” she excused herself, “or they won’t be done
in time.” “Pray don’t hurry,” we replied; “it’s only too kind of you to
show us the house at all.”

Then we opened a conversation with the farmer; he looked an honest,
hard-working man; his face was sunburnt, and his hands showed signs of
toil. I should say that there was no romance about him, nor suspicion of
any such thing. The day was warm, and he was sitting at ease in his
shirt sleeves. “I suppose you get a number of people here to see the
place?” we remarked by way of breaking the ice. “Yes, that we do; lots
of folk come to see the house and hear about the ghost. We’ve had people
come specially all the way from London since it’s got into the papers;
two newspaper writers came down not long ago and made a lot of notes;
they be coming down again to sleep in the house one night. We gets a
quantity of letters too from folk asking to see the house. Have I ever
seen the ghost? No, I cannot rightly say as how I have, but I’ve heard
him often. There’s strange noises and bangings going on at nights, just
like the moving about of heavy furniture on the floors, and knockings on
the walls; the noises used to keep me awake at first, but now I’ve got
used to them and they don’t trouble me. Sometimes, though, I wakes up
when the noises are louder than usual, or my wife wakes me up when she
gets nervous listening to them, but I only says, ‘The ghost is lively
to-night,’ and go to sleep again. I’ve got used to him, you see, but he
upsets the missus a lot. You see she’s seen the ghost several times, and
I only hear him.” The wife meanwhile was intent on her work and made no
remark. “This is all very strange and interesting,” we exclaimed; “and
so the house is really haunted?” Now it was the wife’s turn. “I should
rather think so,” she broke in, “and you’d think so too if you only
slept a night here, or tried to, for you’d not get much sleep unless you
are used to noises, I can tell you: they’re awful at times. I daren’t be
in the house alone after sundown, I’m that afraid.” “And you’ve actually
seen the ghost?” I broke in. “Yes, that I have, three or four times
quite plainly, and several times not quite so plainly; he quite
terrifies me, and one never knows when to expect him.” “Ah! that’s an
unfortunate way ghosts have,” we remarked sympathetically, “but
good-mannered ones are never troublesome in the daytime: that’s one
blessing.”

[Sidenote: _A NOISY GHOST_]

Eventually the busy housewife finished her task, and the peeled potatoes
were safely put in the pot to boil. At this juncture she turned to us
and said she was free for a time and would be very pleased to show us
over the house and give us any information we wished, which was very
kind of her. We then slipped a certain coin of the realm into the hands
of her husband as a slight return for the courtesy shown to us. He
declared that there was no necessity for us to do this, as they did not
wish to make any profit out of their misfortunes, and as he pocketed the
coin with thanks said they were only too pleased to show the house to
any respectable person. The farmer certainly had an honest, frank face.
His wife, we noticed, had a dreamy, far-away look in her eyes, but she
said she did not sleep well, which might account for this. She appeared
nervous and did not look straight at us, but this might have been
manner. First she led the way to a narrow passage, in the front of the
house, that contained the staircase. On either side of this passage was
a door, each leading into a separate sitting-room, both of which rooms
were bare, being entirely void of furniture. Then she told her own
story, which I repeat here from memory, aided by a few hasty notes I
made at the time. “Ever since we came to this house we have been
disturbed by strange noises at nights. They commenced on the very first
night we slept here, just after we had gone to bed. It sounded for all
the world as though some one were in the house moving things about, and
every now and then there was a bang as though some heavy weight had
fallen. We got up and looked about, but there was no one in the place,
and everything was just as we left it. At first we thought the wind must
have blown the doors to, for it was a stormy night, and my husband said
he thought perhaps there were rats in the house. This went on for some
weeks, and we could not account for it, but we never thought of the
house being haunted. We were puzzled but not alarmed. Then one night,
when my husband had gone to bed before me (I had sat up late for some
reason), and I was just going up that staircase, I distinctly saw a
little, bent old man with a wrinkled face standing on the top and
looking steadily down at me. For the moment I wondered who he could be,
never dreaming he was a ghost, so I rushed upstairs to him and he
vanished. Then I shook and trembled all over, for I felt I had seen an
apparition. When I got into the bedroom I shut the door, and on looking
round saw the ghost again quite plainly for a moment, and then he
vanished as before. Since then I’ve seen him about the house in several
places.”

[Sidenote: _A CURIOUS HISTORY_]

Next she showed us into the empty sitting-room to the left of the
staircase; the floor of this was paved with bricks. “It was from this
room,” she continued, “that the noises seemed to come mostly, just as
though some one were knocking a lot of things about in it. This struck
us as singular, so one day we carefully examined the room and discovered
in that corner that the flooring was very uneven, and then we noticed
besides that the bricks there were stained as though some dark substance
had been spilled over them. It at once struck me that some one might
have been murdered and buried there, and it was the ghost of the
murdered man I had seen. So we took up the bricks and dug down in the
earth below, and found some bones, a gold ring, and some pieces of silk.
You can see where the bricks were taken up and relaid. I’m positive it
was a ghost I saw. The noises still continue, though I’ve not seen the
ghost since we dug up the bones.” After this, there being nothing more
to be seen or told, we returned to the kitchen. Here we again
interviewed the farmer, and found out from him that the town of Spilsby,
with a good inn, was only a mile away. Thereupon I decided to myself
that we would drive on to Spilsby, secure accommodation there for wife
and horses for the night, and that I would come back alone and sleep in
the haunted room, if I could arrange matters. With the carriage rugs,
the carriage lamp and candles, some creature comforts from the inn, and
a plentiful supply of tobacco, it appeared to me that I could manage to
pass the night pretty comfortably; and if the ghost looked in--well, I
would approach him in a friendly spirit and, he being agreeable, we
might spend quite a festive evening together! If the ghost did not
favour me, at least I might hear the noises--it would be something to
hear a ghost! Thereupon I mentioned my views to the farmer; he made no
objection to the arrangement, simply suggesting that I should consult
the “missus” as to details; but alas! she did not approve. “You know,”
she said, addressing her husband, “the gentleman might take all the
trouble to come and be disappointed; the ghost might be quiet that very
night; he was quiet one night, you remember. Besides, we promised the
two gentlemen from the London paper that they should come first, and we
cannot break our word.” Appeals from this decision were in vain; the
wife would not hear of our sleeping the night there on any terms, all
forms of persuasion were in vain. Manifestly our presence in the haunted
chamber for the night was not desired by the wife. As entreaties were
useless there was nothing for it but to depart, which we did after again
thanking them for the courtesies already shown; it was not for us to
resent the refusal. “Every Englishman’s house is his castle” according
to English law, and if a ghost breaks the rule--well, “the law does not
recognise ghosts.” So, with a sense of disappointment amounting almost
to disillusion, we departed. I feel quite hopeless now of ever seeing a
ghost, and have become weary of merely reading about his doings in
papers and magazines. I must say that ghosts, both old and new, appear
to behave in a most inconsiderate manner; they go where they are not
wanted and worry people who positively dislike them and strongly object
to their presence, whilst those who would really take an interest in
them they leave “severely alone!”

[Sidenote: _MARKET-DAY AT SPILSBY_]

Arriving at Spilsby we found it to be market-day there, and the clean
and neat little town (chiefly composed of old and pleasantly grouped
buildings) looked quite gay and picturesque with its motley crowds of
farmers and their wives, together with a goodly scattering of country
folk. The womankind favoured bright-hued dresses and red shawls, that
made a moving confusion of colour suggestive of a scene abroad--indeed,
the town that bright sunny day had quite a foreign appearance, and had
it not been for the very English names and words on the shops and walls
around, we might easily have persuaded ourselves that we were abroad. To
add to the picturesqueness of the prospect, out of the thronged
market-place rose the tall tapering medieval cross of stone; the shaft
of this was ancient, and only the cross on the top was modern, and even
the latter was becoming mellowed by time into harmony with the rest. The
whole scene composed most happily, and it struck us that it would make
an excellent motive for a painting with the title, “Market-day in an old
English town.” Will any artist reader, in search of a fresh subject and
new ground, take the hint, I wonder?

Not far from the inn we noticed a bronze statue, set as usual upon a
stone pedestal of the prevailing type, reminding us of the numerous
statues of a like kind that help so successfully to disfigure our London
streets. I must say that this statue had a very latter-day look, little
in accord with the unpretentious old-world buildings that surrounded it.
Bronze under the English climate assumes a dismal, dirty,
greeny-browny-gray--a most depressing colour. At the foot of the statue
was an anchor. Who was this man, and what great wrong had he done, we
wondered, to be memorialised thus? So we went to see, and on the
pedestal we read--

                           SIR JOHN FRANKLIN
                 Discoverer of the North West Passage
                            Born at Spilsby
                              April 1786.
                      Died in the Arctic Regions
                              June 1847.

After this we visited the church, here let me honestly confess, not for
the sake of worship or curiosity, but for a moment’s restful quiet. The
inn was uncomfortably crowded, a farmers’ “Ordinary” was being held
there. The roadways of the town were thronged; there were stalls erected
in the market square from which noisy vendors gave forth torrents of
eloquence upon the virtues of the goods they had to sell,--especially
eloquent and strong of voice was a certain seller of spectacles, but he
was hard pressed in these respects by the agent of some

[Sidenote: _IN SEARCH OF QUIET_]

wonderful medicine that cured all diseases. The country folk gathered
round them, and others listened with apparent interest to their appeals,
but so far as we could observe purchased nothing. Spilsby on a
market-day was undoubtedly picturesque, with a picturesqueness that
pleased our artistic eye, but the ear was not gratified; for once we
felt that deafness would have been a blessing! We sought for peace and
rest within the church and found it; not a soul was there, and the
stillness seemed to us, just then, profound. It is well to keep our
churches open on week days for prayer and meditation, but the
worshippers, where are they engaged till the next Sunday? To the
majority of people in the world religion is an affair of Sundays. Whilst
travelling in the Western States some years ago, I suggested meekly to
an American, who was showing me over his flourishing few-year-old city
(it is bigger and older now) with manifest pride at its rapid commercial
prosperity, that it seemed to me a rather wicked place. “Waal now,” he
said, “I’ll just grant you we’re pretty bad on week days, but I guess
we’re mighty good on Sundays; that’s so. Now you needn’t look aghast,
you Britishers are not much better than the rest of the world. I was a
sea captain formerly, and on one voyage I hailed one of your passing
ships China bound. ‘What’s your cargo, John?’ shouts I. ‘Missionaries
and idols,’ replies he. ‘Honest John!’ I shouted back.” This reminds me
of a curious incident that came under my notice in London not so very
long ago. I had an old English bracket clock that I took myself to a
wholesale firm of clock-makers to be repaired. Whilst in the shop I
noticed a peculiar piece of mechanism, the purpose of which puzzled me,
so I sought for information. “Oh!” replied one of the firm, “that’s a
special order for a temple in China; it is to work an idol and make him
move.” This is an absolute fact. Presumably that clock-maker was an
excellent Christian in his own estimation. I do not know whether there
was anything in my look that he considered called for an explanation,
but he added, “Business is business, you know; you’d be astonished what
funny orders we sometimes have in our trade. Only the other day a firm
sounded us if we would undertake to make some imitation ‘genuine’
Elizabethan clocks; they sent us one to copy. But we replied declining,
merely stating that we had so far conducted our business honestly, and
intended always to do so.” So, according to the ethics of our informant,
it is not dishonest to make clock-work intended to secretly make an idol
move, but it is dishonest to make imitation medieval clocks! Such are
the refinements of modern commerce!

Now, after this over-long digression, to return to the interior of
Spilsby church, here we discovered a number of very interesting and some
curious monuments to the Willoughby family, in a side chapel railed off
from the nave. On one of the altar-tombs is the recumbent effigy of
John, the first Baron Willoughby, and Joan, his wife. The baron is
represented in full armour, with shield and sword

[Sidenote: _CROSS-LEGGED EFFIGIES_]

and crossed legs; his lady is shown with a tightly-fitting gown and
loosely-robed mantle over. This baron fought at Crecy and died three
years afterwards. On another tomb is a fine alabaster effigy of John the
second Baron, who took part in the battle of Poictiers; he is also
represented in full armour, with his head resting on a helmet, and
diminutive figures of monks support, or adorn, this tomb. There are also
other fine tombs to older warriors, but of less interest; one huge
monument has a very curious carved statue of a wild man on it, the
meaning of which is not very apparent. It used to be an accepted
tradition that when an ancient warrior was shown in effigy with his legs
crossed, he had been a Crusader, but Dr. Cox, the eminent archæologist
and antiquary, declares that this does not follow. “It is a popular
error,” he says, “to suppose that cross-legged effigies are certain
proofs that those they represented were Crusaders. In proof of this many
well-known Crusaders were not represented as cross-legged, and the habit
of crossing the legs was common long after the Crusades had terminated.”
I am sorry to find that such a poetical tradition has no foundation in
fact, and must therefore share the fate of so many other picturesque
fictions that one would fondly cling to if one could. Sometimes I wish
that learned antiquaries, for the sake of old-world romance, would keep
their doubts to themselves. Romance is not religion; one takes a legend
with a grain of salt, but there is always the bare possibility that it
may be true, unless shown otherwise. It is just this that charms. Why
needlessly undo it?

Now, after Dr. Cox’s dictum, whenever I see a cross-legged effigy of a
mailed warrior, I am perplexed to know why he is so shown. Will learned
antiquaries kindly explain? It is rather provoking to the inquiring mind
to say it does not mean one thing, and yet not define what else it
means. From what I know of the medieval sculptor he ever had a purpose
in his work, it was always significant. Dr. Cox likewise declares
“Whitewash on stones was not an abomination of the Reformation, but was
commonly used long before that period.” I am glad to know this for the
reputation of the Reformation.

At Spilsby we consulted our map, and after much discussion about our
next stage, whether it should be to Alford or Horncastle, we eventually
decided to drive over the Wolds to the latter town and rest there for
the night. It turned out a hilly drive, as we expected; indeed, in this
respect, the road would have done credit to Cumberland. On the way we
had ample evidence that Lincolnshire was not all “as flat as a pancake,”
as many people wrongly imagine.

For a mile or so out of Spilsby our road was fairly level, then it began
to climb in earnest till we reached the top of the “windy Wolds.” High
up in the world as we were here, so our horizon was high also, and,
looking back, we had a magnificent panorama presented to us. Away below
stretched the far-reaching Fenland, spread out like a mighty

[Sidenote: _ON THE WOLDS_]

living map, with its countless fruitful fields, green meadows,
many-tinted woods touched with autumnal gold, winding waterways, deep
dykes, white roads, and frequent railways, space-diminished into tiny
threads, its mansions, villages, towns, and ancient churches.
Conspicuous amongst the last was the tall and stately tower of Boston’s
famous “stump,” faintly showing, needle-like, in the dim, dreamy
distance, and marking where the blue land met the bluer sea, for from
our elevated standpoint the far-off horizon of the land, seen through
the wide space of air, looked as though it had all been washed over with
a gigantic brush dipped in deepest indigo. It was a wonderful prospect,
a vision of vastness, stretching away from mystery to mystery. The eye
could not see, nor the mind comprehend it all at once, and where it
faded away into a poetic uncertainty the imagination had full play. It
is ever in the far-off that the land of romance lies, the land one never
reaches, and that is always dim and dreamy--the near at hand is plainly
revealed and commonplace! Of course much depends on the eye of the
beholder, but the vague and remote to conjure with have a certain charm
and undoubted fascination for most minds. It was of such a prospect as
this, it might even have been this very one, that Tennyson pictures in
verse--

    Calm and deep peace on this high wold,

           *       *       *       *       *

    Calm and still light on yon great plain
        That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
        And crowded farms and lessening towers,
    To mingle with the bounding main.

For we were now nearing the birthplace and early home of the great
Victorian poet, and he was fond of wandering all the country round, and
might well have noted this wonderful view. No poet or painter could pass
it by unregarded!

On this spreading upland the light sweet air, coming fresh and free over
leagues of land and leagues of sea, met us with its invigorating breath.
After the heavy, drowsy air of the Fens it was not only exhilarating but
exciting, and we felt impelled to do something, to exert ourselves in
some manner--this was no lotus-eating land--so for want of a better
object we left the dogcart and started forth on a brisk walk. One would
imagine that all the energy of the county would be centred in the Wold
region, and that the dwellers in the Fens would be slothful and
unenergetic in comparison. Yet the very reverse is the case. The
Wolds--townless and rail-less--are given over to slumberous quietude and
primitive agriculture, its inhabitants lead an uneventful life free from
all ambition, its churches are poor and small whilst the churches of the
Fens in notable contrast are mostly fine and large, its hamlets and
villages remain hamlets and villages and do not grow gradually into
towns: it is a bit of genuine Old England where old customs remain and
simple needs suffice. A land with

    Little about it stirring save a brook!
    A sleepy land, where under the same wheel
    The same old rut would deepen year by year.

On the other hand, the Fenland inhabitants appear to be “full of go”
with their growing villages, prosperous towns, flourishing ports,
railways, and waterways. It was energy that converted the wild watery
waste of the Fens into a land smiling with crops; it is energy that
keeps it so.

[Sidenote: _A GLORIOUS UPLAND_]

As we progressed we lost sight of the Fens, and soon found ourselves in
the midst of circling hills that bounded our prospect all around--hills
that dipped gently down to shady, wooded valleys, and rose above them to
bare, grassy, or fir-fringed summits, bathed in soft sunshine. Along the
sloping sides of this glorious upland we could trace the narrow white
country roads winding far away and wandering up and down till lost in
the growing grayness of the misty distance--just like the roads of
Devonshire. Indeed, in parts, the country we passed through distinctly
reminded us of Devonshire; it was as far removed from the popular
conception of Lincolnshire scenery as a Dutch landscape is from a
Derbyshire one. Indeed, a cyclist whom we met that evening at Horncastle
declared indignantly to us that he considered Lincolnshire “a fraud”; he
had been induced to tour therein under the impression that the roads
were “all beautifully level and good going.” He had just ridden over the
Wolds that day, he explained, hence his disparaging remarks--and he was
very angry!

Journeying on we presently reached the lonely, picturesque, and
prettily-named village of Mavis Enderby. Its ancient church, a field’s
space away from the road, looked interesting with its hoary walls, gray
stone churchyard cross, and little sun-dial. In the porch we noted a
holy-water stoup supported on four small clustered pillars; the interior
of the building we did not see, for the door was locked and we felt too
lazy to go and hunt for the key. The top of the cross is adorned with a
carving of the Crucifixion on one side, and of the Virgin Mary holding
the infant Saviour on the other. The shaft for about half its extent
upwards is manifestly ancient, the rest, including of course the
sculpturings, is as manifestly modern, though not of yesterday, for the
latter portion already shows slight signs of weathering, and has become
time-mellowed and lichen-clad. The figures at the top are effectively
but roughly carved in faithful imitation of medieval work of the same
class. So faithful in fact and spirit indeed is the copy that there is
no small danger of antiquaries in the years to come being deceived, and
pronouncing the cross to be a rare and well-preserved specimen of
fifteenth-century work. Apropos of this carefully studied copying of
ancient work it may not be uninteresting to quote here from a letter of
Lord Grimthorpe upon the restoration of St. Albans Abbey which he
carried out. “It took no small trouble to get them (new stones inserted
in the work) worked as roughly as the old ones, so as to make the work
homogeneous, and to bewilder antiquaries who pretend to be able to
distinguish new work from old; which indeed architects generally make
very easy for them.”

As we were about leaving we observed an intelligent-looking man
leisurely walking on the road, the only living person we had seen in the
village by

[Sidenote: _A MODERN PURITAN_]

the way; we asked him if he knew anything about the cross,--who restored
it, and when? We were not prepared for the outburst that followed this
innocent query. “That popish thing,” he exclaimed savagely and
contemptuously, “we want another Cromwell, that’s about what’s the
matter, and the sooner he comes the better. I’m a Protestant, and my
forefathers were Protestants afore me. Now it’s bad enough to have
popery inside a church, as has crept in of late years,--lights, incense,
vestments, banners, processions; but to boldly bring their cursed popery
outside, well----” and he could find no words strong enough to express
his detestation of such proceedings, but he looked unutterable things.
“I just feel as how I’d like to swear,” he exclaimed, “only it’s
wicked.” We sympathised with him, and tried to calm his injured
feelings. We prided ourselves on our successful diplomacy; we said,
“Now, if Cromwell were only here he would soon have that cross down.”
This in no way compromised us, but it served somewhat to soothe the
stranger’s anger. “Ay! that’s true,” responded he, and regardless of
grammar went on, “mighty quick too, he’d mighty soon clear the country
of all the popish nonsense. Why, in my young days, we used to have
parsons, now we’ve got priests.” He then paused to light his pipe, at
which he drew furiously--our question never got answered after all, but,
under the circumstances, we thought perhaps it would be well not to
repeat it, we did not want a religious declamation--we were
pleasure-touring! The lighting of the pipe broke the thread of the
discourse for the moment, and it seemed to us a good opportunity to
depart on our way.

The fire of Puritanism, or whatever other name that erst powerful “ism”
goes under now, is not extinguished in the land but smoulders; will it
ever break out into a destroying flame again? It may; history sometimes
repeats itself! The swing of the pendulum just now appears in favour of
ritualism, strongly so, it seems to me; who can tell that it may not
swing back again? I once asked a New England Puritan of the pure old
Cromwellian stock--a refined man, a lover of art and literature--how it
was that Puritanism, in days past at any rate, was such a deadly enemy
to art? He replied, “It was so, simply of painful necessity. Freedom,
religious freedom, is more than art. Priestly tyranny had enslaved art,
bribed it into its service, and art had to pay the penalty. Nowadays art
has shaken herself free, practically free from her ancient masters, and
Puritanism and art are friends. And the Puritan lion may lie down with
the art lamb and not hurt him.” Which is a comforting thought should the
pendulum suddenly swing back again. It seems just now highly improbable,
but the improbable occasionally comes to pass. How highly improbable,
nay impossible, it would have seemed, say a century or so ago, that
incense, vestments, lighted candles on the “altar,” would find place in
the Church of England service, to say nothing of holy water being used,
and “the Angelus bell being rung at the consecration of the elements,
and the elevation of the Host,” as I read in the _Standard_ of 29th
October 1890, was done at the dedication festival of the Church of St.
Mary, in Clumber Park, Worksop! Truly might Cromwell exclaim, were he to
come to life again and see these things, “The times are changed!”

[Sidenote: _AN ANCIENT FIGHT_]

Farther on we drove over Winceby Hill, one of the highest points of the
Wolds, and the scene of an early encounter between the forces of the
King and those of the Parliament; an encounter that is said to have
brought Cromwell into prominent notice, of which conflict we shall come
upon some relics at Horncastle anon, as well as a curious tradition
connected therewith.

Leaving Winceby Hill our road began to descend; the country in front of
us, as it were, dropped down, and, far away below, we caught sight of
the red-roofed houses of Horncastle, with its gray church beyond, and
busy windmills around. It was a long descent, affording us a glorious,
far-extending view ahead over a well-wooded, watered, and undulating
country flooded with warm sunshine. It looked like a veritable land of
promise.

Down we drove till at the foot of our long descent we found ourselves in
Horncastle, a quaint old town which has earned for itself more than a
local reputation on account of its yearly horse fair,--the largest and
most important, we were told, in the kingdom. We rejoiced that we had
not arrived the day of the fair; fair-days and market-days are best
avoided by the quiet-loving traveller. We had crossed a spur of the
Wolds and had touched the fringe of a charming stretch of country
agreeably diversified by heaths and fir forests to the west, where the
soil is light and sandy, in great contrast to that of the Fens and of
the chalk Wolds. Horncastle, I have said, is a quaint old town; it
struck us as a pleasant one as well, picturesque in parts, especially by
the side of the little river Bain that winds through it, and gives it
rather a Dutch-like look. The chief portion of the town is built on a
horn-shaped extent of land formed by the river. There was also a castle
there of which some slight ruins remain, hence the name Horncastle, a
bit of information I gleaned from a local paper. Consulting our old and
well-used copy of _Paterson_ we noticed that the Bull Inn here was given
as the coaching and posting house, so we drove up to that old-time
hostelry confidently, for it generally holds good in country places that
the hotel mentioned in _Paterson_ as the best is still the best. The
Bull too was a good old-fashioned title, suggestive of the olden days
and other ways; and within its hospitable walls we found comfortable
quarters and a most courteous landlord, who also, we discovered, during
a chat with him over our evening pipe, was like ourselves a confirmed
traveller by road. “There’s nothing like it for enjoyment and health,”
exclaimed he; “I never felt so well as when I was on the road.”
Sentiments in which we were one! Soundly we slept that night beneath the
sign of the Bull. The fresh air of the Wolds acted like a powerful
narcotic. Our long and interesting day’s drive had a pleasant ending!




CHAPTER XVI

     Six hilly miles--A vision for a pilgrim--The scenery of the
     Wolds--Poets’ dreams _versus_ realities--Tennyson’s
     brook--Somersby--An out-of-the-world spot--Tennyson-land--A
     historic home--A unique relic of the past--An ancient moated
     grange--Traditions.


The next morning after breakfast we consulted our map as to the day’s
doings and wanderings. We found that we were only some six miles or so
away from Somersby, Tennyson’s birthplace,--six hilly ones they proved
to be, but this is a detail. After due consideration we decided that
being so comfortable and so much at home in our present quarters we
would “take our ease” thereat for still another night and devote the day
to exploring Tennyson-land, that is to say, the haunts of his youth. We
made out by our map that we could drive to Somersby one way, see
something of the country around and beyond, and return by another route,
a fact that would give additional interest to our explorations. It would
be a delightful little expedition, the morning was fine and sunny, our
aneroid was steady at “Fair,” the country before us was a _terra
incognita_, interesting because of its associations apart from the
possible beauty and certain freshness of its scenery.

On leaving Horncastle our road at once commenced to climb the Wolds,
and as we rose the country around widened out. At the crest of the first
hill we rested a while to enjoy the prospect; looking back, our eyes
ranged over miles and miles of changeful greenery with the wide
over-arching sky above, a sky of a blue that would have done credit to
Italy. On the far-off horizon we could just discern the faint outlines
of Lincoln’s lordly minster, regnant on the hill above the city, a
vision that doubtless would have caused the pious medieval pilgrim to go
down on his knees,--I write “pious” though I am by no means sure that
all medieval pilgrims deserved that epithet. It was in those days a
cheap, comparatively safe, if uncomfortable way of travelling, the poor
man then had only to assume the garb and manners of a pilgrim to travel
and see novel sights and even foreign countries free of expense for
board or food, and he might be as lazy as he liked, provided he did not
mind a little leisurely walking and going through certain religious
observances. The modern tramp was born too late!

As we drove on we had before us a sea of hills, round and green close at
hand, fading away by subtle degrees to gray, and from gray to tenderest
blue, where in the dim distance the land seemed almost to melt into the
sky. Then our road dipped down gradually into a well-wooded country, a
glorious country of leafy woods--most charming at Holbeck with its
little lakes, an ideal spot on a hot summer’s day; and from the woods
rose great grassy slopes down which the sunshine glinted in long lines
of yellow light, the golden warmth of the sunlit earth being enhanced
by cool shadows of pearly-gray cast by the undulations of the land as
well as by cottage, hedge, and tree. The Wolds were very fair to look
upon that perfect September day.

[Sidenote: _THE BEAUTY OF THE WOLDS_]

The sun-bright air flooded the landscape with its light; an air so clear
and pure and sweet, so balmy yet so bracing, it made us exultant and our
journey a joy! Sunshine and fresh air, the fresh air of the Wolds, the
Downs, the moors, and the mountains, are as inspiriting as champagne,
and the finest cure in the world for pessimism! Whenever I feel inclined
that way I go a-driving across country and forget all about it! So we
drove on in a delightful day-dream, rejoicing that fate had led us into
the Lincolnshire highlands. The unassuming beauty of the Wolds gladdened
our hearts, there is a soothing simplicity about it that grander scenes
fail to convey; it is in no way wonderful, it is much better--it is
satisfying! It too is general, it boasts no presiding peak, no special
points of scenic importance that compel you to see them with an
irritating pretentiousness: it is not even romantic, it is merely
benign. It breathes the atmosphere of peace and homeliness, it does not
cry aloud to be admired--and surely there is a virtue in repose as well
as in assertiveness? And of the two, in this restless age, repose seems
to me the more excellent!

What a wonder it is that the guide-book compilers have not discovered
Lincolnshire--and what a blessing! As a novelist once said to me, “I
grant you Lincolnshire has its charms, but there is nothing to catch
hold of in it.” Well, I am glad that such is the case--one cannot
always be in the admiring or heroic mood, there is surely a virtue in
scenery that simply smiles at you and lulls you to rest. Here is a
charming and healthful holiday ground untrodden, and I can only
selfishly say that I trust it may long remain so. The beauty of the
Wolds awaits its discoverer and interpreter. Tennyson’s descriptions of
Lincolnshire, unlike those of Scott, are too vague to be popular. He is
never individual; you cannot even trace his Locksley Hall, nor his
Moated Grange. In the _Life of Lord Tennyson_ his son writes, “The
localities of my father’s subject-poems are wholly imaginary.” Tennyson
also remarked to Professor Knight, “There are some curious creatures who
go about fishing for the people and searching for the places which they
fancy must have given rise to my poems. They don’t understand or believe
that I have any imagination of my own to create the people or places.”
For this reason, however much the public may admire Tennyson’s poetry,
his poems have failed to make it enthusiastic over Lincolnshire, or to
bring the tripper into the land. The tourist desires to inspect actual
places and spots, he would like to see the real Locksley Hall, the
Moated Grange, and so forth--and they are not to be found, for they are
poets’ dreams!

The first hamlet we came to was curiously called Ashby Puerorum, as we
afterwards discovered, on account of its having been assigned to the
maintenance of the choir boys belonging to Lincoln Cathedral. The little
old church stands lonely on

[Sidenote: _THE VIRTUE OF POVERTY_]

an eminence from which we enjoyed a fine prospect over open wold and
sheltered dale. Fortunately, owing doubtless to the want of means, the
majority of the churches in the Wolds have not been restored but merely
repaired--a distinction with a vast difference. Said a passer-by, at
another hamlet farther on our way, “I’m afraid you’ll find our church
very old-fashioned inside, we’re too poor to restore it properly.” For
once I can exclaim, “Oh blessed poverty!”

Much good ink has been spilt on the vexed question of restoration, so
many sins have been committed in its name, that the word has become
hateful to antiquaries and archæologists. There is a charm quite
incommunicable in words about an ancient fane whose walls are beautified
by the bloom of ages, and are hallowed by the oft-repeated prayers of
bygone generations of worshippers--generations who have added to its
history in stone as the years rolled by. Time has given every such
edifice a character of its own, just as it gives each human face its
special character. It has imparted an individuality to it; past
associations are gathered there, and a past atmosphere seems to be
enclosed within. Whilst without, the summer suns and winter storms and
frosts of unremembered years have left their mark, all of which give an
ancient church a pathetic look, and a poetic charm to be felt rather
than defined,--a charm that comes alone of age and old associations, and
that therefore no new building, however architecturally perfect but with
its history to make, can possibly possess.

Too often, alas! the restorer, when let loose upon an ancient church,
restores it so perfectly that he destroys nearly all past history (as
well, were it possible, might an aged man’s lined and thoughtful face be
“restored” to the sweet, though meaningless, simplicity of a baby’s). He
scrapes the walls most carefully down and makes them outwardly look like
new; he possibly restores the fabric backwards to the one period he
inclines to, obliterating as far as may be all the storied work of
intermediate generations, just in order, forsooth, to make the building
all of one style. And upon the unhappy result the grieved antiquary
gazes sadly, for its general aspect is no longer ancient, it looks like
new, its interest is gone. Sir James Picton has laid down the dictum
that the true principle of restoration is this: “Where an unsightly
excrescence has been introduced, remove it; where a stone is decayed
replace it; where the walls are covered with whitewash, clean them down.
If tracery be broken, match it with new of similar character; but spare
the antique surface. Do not touch the evidence which time has recorded
of the days gone by.” In the last sentence lies the very essence of true
restoration. A well-known architect once told me that he was
commissioned by a great man to design him a little country house wherein
he might retire and rusticate away from the trammels of State. “When you
design it,” said the nobleman to the architect, “be sure you write the
word ‘cottage’ large upon your paper.” So I would suggest to the
architect-restorer that whenever he is about to restore an ancient
building to write the sentence “Do not touch the evidence which time
has recorded of the days gone by” largely in his mind. Within the church
of Ashby Puerorum we observed an interesting early sixteenth-century
brass to Richard Littlebury, his wife, and quiverful of ten children.
Also in the pavement under the communion table a fine incised marble
slab to a priest, who is shown in Eucharistic vestments.

[Sidenote: “_TENNYSON’S BROOK_”]

Then our road dipped down into a Devonshire-like lane, deep in shade,
with high hedgerows on either side, and branching trees overhead,
through the rustling foliage of which the softened sunshine shone in a
subdued golden-green, delightfully grateful and refreshing to the eye.
At the foot of the dip we crossed a little “babbling brook” on a little
one-arched bridge,--a brook that flows past the foot of Somersby rectory
garden, about half a mile away, and is locally known as “Tennyson’s
brook.” One cannot but believe that this is the exception to the rule,
and supplied the poet with the subject of his well-known poem. In this
belief the stream had a special charm for us; of itself, though pleasant
enough to look upon, it is insignificant, but the magic art of a great
poet has made it as famous as many a mighty river, such is the power of
the pen; a power that promises to rule the world, and dictate even to
dictators! We halted here a little while and watched the tiny
clear-watered stream flowing on brightly blue, sparkling and rippling in
the light, and here and there, beneath the grassy banks and bramble
bushes, showing a lovely translucent tawny tint, and again a tremulous
yellow where it glided over its sandy shallows with many musical
murmurings.

Along the road we had come Tennyson in his youth must often have roamed
and tarried, for he was in love with the eldest daughter of Mr. Henry
Sellwood of Horncastle; and Dame Rumour has it that he composed many of
his early poems during those wanderings to and fro between Somersby and
that town. The pleasant stretch of country that the road traverses has
apparently little, if at all, changed since that time; so, much as it
looked to us, must it have looked to the poet, with its leafy woods, its
green meadows, its golden cornfields sloping to the sun, with the
bounding wolds around, that beautify whilst limiting the prospect.

So driving on we came at last to old-world Somersby, a tiny hamlet that
has never heard the sound of the railway whistle, nor known the hand of
the modern builder, a spot that might be a hundred miles from anywhere,
and seems successfully to avoid the outer world, whilst in turn the
outer world as carefully avoids it! Most happy Somersby! We had found
Arcadia at last! In this remote nook Time itself seems to be napping,
very tenderly has it dealt with the poet’s birthplace and the scenes of
his boyhood around. Here it is always yesterday. A peace that is not of
our time broods incumbent over it, a tranquillity that has been handed
down unimpaired from ages past lingers lovingly around.

On one side of the little-travelled road and a trifle back therefrom
stands the rambling rectory, with its home-like, yellow-washed walls,
and ridged and red-tiled roof; on the other stands the ancient church
hoary with age; while just beyond the rectory is a quaint old manor
house, or grange, formerly moated and now half buried in trees--and this
is Somersby. A spot worthy of being the birthplace of a great poet, “a
haunt of ancient peace.”

[Sidenote: _MILES FROM ANYWHERE_]

Approaching the rectory we knocked at the door, or it may be we rang a
bell, I am not now sure which, and begged permission to be allowed to
sketch or photograph the house, which was freely granted. Emboldened by
the readiness to accede to our request we further gave a broad hint of
what a great pleasure it would give us just to take a glance within as
being the birthplace and early home of so famous a man; this favour was
also most courteously granted. It must be well for the present dwellers
in the now historic rectory that Somersby is miles from anywhere, and
that anywhere in the shape of the nearest town is not a tourist-haunted
one, or else they would have small respite from callers asking--I had
almost written demanding--to see the place. To such an extent did
Carlyle, even in his lifetime, find this tourist trespass that we are
told “the genial author of _Sartor Resartus_ actually paid a labourer in
the parish £5 per annum to take admiring visitors to another farm and
pretend that it was Craigenputtock!”

Entering Somersby rectory we were shown the quaint Gothic dining-room,
designed and built by the poet’s father, that somewhat resembled the
interior of a tiny church. A charming chamber, in spite of its
ecclesiastical look, for it had the stamp of individuality about it. The
oak mantelpiece here was carved by Tennyson’s father; in this there are
eleven niches, with a figure of an apostle in each--seven niches over
the centre of the fireplace and two on either side. By some error in the
design, we were informed, the reverend craftsman had forgotten to
provide a niche for the other apostle--surely a strange mistake for a
clergyman to make!

In this quiet rectory, right away in the heart of the remote Wolds,
Tennyson was born in 1809, whilst still the eventful nineteenth century
was young. Under the red roof-trees at the top of the house is situated
the attic, “that room--the apple of my heart’s delight,” as the poet
called it. The rectory and garden have happily remained practically
unchanged, in all the changeful times that have passed, since those days
when the future poet-laureate sang his “matin song” there. At last the
hour came when the family had to leave the old home. Tennyson appears to
have felt the parting greatly, for he says--

    We leave the well-beloved place
        Where first we gazed upon the sky:
        The roofs that heard our earliest cry,
    Will shelter one of stranger race.

But such partings are inevitable in this world; in a restless age that
prefers to rent rather than own its own home, even the plaintiveness of
such partings appeals but to the few. The modern mind rather loves
change than regrets it; the word “home” means not all it used to do in
the days ago!

In the illustration of Somersby rectory, as seen from the garden, given
herewith, the room in which

[Illustration: SOMERSBY RECTORY: THE BIRTHPLACE OF TENNYSON.]

[Sidenote: _AT SOMERSBY_]

the poet was born is distinguished by the creeper-grown iron balcony. To
the right of the building is shown the gabled exterior of the Gothic
dining-room with the sunlight flickering over it, and the curious little
statues in the niches thereof, the carved shields built into the wall,
the grotesque heads graven on either side of the traceried windows, and
lastly, and most noticeably, the quaint gargoyles projecting boldly
forth. This addition of Dr. Tennyson to the rectory at once gives it a
welcome character, and lifts it out of the commonplace; without such
addition the house would be pleasant enough to look upon in a homely
way, but featureless. Like human beings, buildings are improved by a
little character; there is plenty of insipidity in the world in flesh
and blood as well as in bricks, or stones, and mortar.

The old bird-haunted garden behind the rectory--especially beloved by
blackbirds and thrushes--with its old-fashioned flower-beds, its
summer-house, dark copper beeches, and sunny lawn sloping to the south,
remains much as when the Tennyson family were there, and a rustic gate,
just as of old, leads to the meadows and _the_ brook that “runs babbling
to the plain.” For the sake of posterity it would be well if this
storied rectory, together with the little garden, could be preserved in
its original and picturesque simplicity for ever. Any day may be too
late! In the historic perspective of the centuries to come, Tennyson
will doubtless rank as the greatest poet of a great age--perchance as
one of the immortals, for some fames cannot die! and who can tell with
the growing glamour of time whether Somersby rectory, if preserved
whilst yet there is the opportunity, may not come to be a place of
pilgrimage even as is Stratford-on-Avon? The latter spot Americans love
to call “Shakespeare’s town,” as they delight to term England “the old
home”; will it ever be that Somersby will be called “Tennyson’s
village”? The best memorial of the great Victorian poet would be to
religiously preserve his birthplace intact as it now is, and was in the
poet’s youth; better, far better to do this little to his memory than to
erect statues in squares or streets, or place stained-glass windows in
cathedrals or churches--these can be produced any day! but his
birthplace, overgrown with memories and with the glamour of old
associations clinging to it, if by any chance this be lost to us it can
never be replaced, neither prayers nor money could do it. Gold cannot
purchase memories!

The church of Somersby is small but it is picturesque (in my eyes at any
rate), and has the charm of unpretentiousness; you may admire a grand
cathedral, but a humble fane like this you may love, which is better.
The Christian religion was born of humbleness! The infant Saviour in the
lowly manger is ever greater than His servant, a lordly bishop in a
palace! So a simple, earnest service in such an unadorned church appeals
to me infinitely more, brings the reality of true religion nearer to my
heart, than the most elaborate ritual in the most magnificent cathedral
(which merely appeals to the senses), as though God could only be
approached through a pompous ceremonial with the aid of priestly
intercession, all of which

    Seems to remove the Lord so far away;
    The “Father” was so near in Jesus’ day.

Ceremonial belongs properly to paganism, not to Christianity!

[Sidenote: _A TIME-WORN TOWER_]

The ancient tower of Somersby church is squat and square, it boasts no
uprising spire pointing to the sky. The soft sandstone of which it is
built has crumbled away in places, and has been patched here and there
with red bricks and redder tiles. Its weather-worn walls are now
moss-encrusted and lichen-laden; tiny weeds and grasses--bird or wind
sown--find a home in many a crevice of the time-rent masonry. The tower
is a study of colour, its rugged surface shows plainly the stress and
stains of countless winter storms. Yellow and gray stones, green grasses
and vegetation, ruddy bricks and broken tiles, form a blending of tints
that go to make a harmonious whole, mellowed as they are by the magic
hand of Time. The tower stands there silently eloquent of the past,
beautiful with a beauty it had not at first, and that is the dower of
ages; it looks so pathetic in its patched and crumbling state, yet in
spite of all it is strong still. Generations will come and wither away
faster than its stones will crumble down.

The most permanent feature of the English landscape is its ancient
churches. Kingdoms have waxed and waned, new empires and mighty
republics across the seas have been founded, since they first arose,
and still they stand in their old places, watching over the slumbering
dead around. But I am rhapsodising, and nowadays this is a literary sin.
I acknowledge my transgression and will endeavour to atone for it by
merely being descriptive for the future.

On the gable of the porch of Somersby church is an old-fashioned
sun-dial--useful on sunny days to reproach laggard worshippers. This
bears the not very original motto, “Time passeth.” A better motto we
noted inscribed on an old Fenland country garden sun-dial as follows,
and which struck us as fresh:--

    A clock the time may wrongly tell,
    I never, if the sun shine well.

Within the porch is a well-preserved holy-water stoup.

The interior of the church unfortunately shows signs of restoration, in
a mild form truly, but still unwelcome as robbing the fabric of some of
its ancient character. Surely of all churches in the wild Wolds this one
might have been simply maintained. Possibly the poet’s wide renown has
been the cause of its undoing; well may Byron sing of “the fatal gift of
fame.” The church looks not now the same as when Dr. Tennyson preached,
and his son, who was to make the family name familiar throughout the
world, worshipped there. The obtrusive red-tiled pavement “that rushes
at you,” to employ an expressive artist’s term; the over-neat seats--of
varnished pine, if I remember aright--are clean and decent, but they
hardly harmonise with the simple

[Sidenote: “_NEW WINE IN OLD BOTTLES_”]

rustic fane. Better far, considering the associations it has acquired,
to have preserved the church as Tennyson knew it. Besides these signs of
“new wine in old bottles,” architecturally speaking, we noticed an
intruding harmonium; but this does not matter so much as it is movable,
and the eye knowing this can conveniently ignore it, no harm has been
permanently done, it is not structural. The instrument is inscribed--

                          To the glory of God
                           and in memory of
                         ALFRED LORD TENNYSON
                            September 1895.

One cannot but feel that nothing new or mean should have been allowed to
find a place here; all the old church needed was to be repaired, that
might have been, possibly was, a painful necessity. To do more was to do
harm. In his _In Memoriam_ Tennyson refers to “the cold baptismal font”
(where, according to the Somersby register, the poet was christened on
8th August 1809); this happily remains unchanged--a simple font of
shaped stone that well accords with the time-hallowed structure within
and the weather-worn walls without. That this has not been improved away
is a fact to be thankful for; we might have had some “superior carved
art” marble production in its place put there “To the glory of God, and
in memory of,” etc., the usual excuse for such innovations.

In the graveyard of Somersby, close to the porch stands a genuine
medieval churchyard cross in perfect condition, save for the inevitable
weathering of centuries--a sight to delight the heart of an antiquary. A
beautifully designed cross it is, in the Perpendicular style, most
gracefully proportioned, consisting of a tall octagonal shaft tapering
upwards from its base. On the top of the shaft, under an angular canopy,
is the figure of the Virgin Mary crowned on one side and a
representation of the crucifixion on the other. This cross is, I
believe, unique in England, inasmuch as it was neither destroyed by the
Puritans nor has it been restored. It only shows that then, as now,
Somersby must have been remote and out of the world, or how otherwise
can we account for this “superstitious thing” escaping their eagle eyes,
even so its escape is a marvel considering that Lincolnshire was one of
the strongholds of Puritanism. The peculiar preservation of this one
cross in all England, under the circumstances, would almost suggest some
unrecorded cause, it is a minor historical mystery! The tomb of Dr.
Tennyson is in the churchyard here. “Our father’s dust is left alone,”
pathetically exclaims the poet as he bade a reluctant farewell to the
home and scenes of his childhood to wander

        In lands where not a memory strays,
        Nor landmark breathes of other days,
    But all is new unhallow’d ground.

We now turned to inspect the ancient and erst moated grange that stands
just beyond the rectory, the gardens of the two houses indeed adjoin.
This charming and quaint old home was naturally well known to Tennyson,
and within its time-honoured walls he and his brothers, we learn, used
to indulge their boyish pranks. It is reputed to have been designed by
Sir J. Vanbrugh; a substantial, imposing-looking building it is of
brick, and suggests a massiveness not often obtained in that material.
The parapet that runs along the top is embattled, a great doorway finds
a place in the centre of the front facing the road, the windows are
heavy and round topped, and at each corner of the house is a square
little tower that slightly projects. Though it does not wholly answer to
either description, it used to be believed by many people to be the
original of “The Moated Grange,” and by others that of “Locksley Hall.”
Now that we know that the poet himself has declared such fond
suppositions to be fallacies, the matter is settled for ever.

[Sidenote: _SOMERSBY GRANGE_]

Seen from the roadway, and across the bit of wild garden, as we saw it
then, Somersby Grange, with no sign of life about it, not even smoke
from chimney, nor stray bird on roof, nor bark of dog; its sombre mass
standing darkly forth, gloomy in the shade cast down by overhanging
trees of twisted branches and heavy foliage, its weather-stained walls
gray and green with age; seen thus, the old grange impressed us greatly,
it seemed the very ideal of a haunted house, it positively called for a
family ghost. There was, as the Scotch say, an eerie look about it; the
gray, grim walls told of past days, and suggested forgotten episodes, an
air of olden romance clings thereto, mingled with something of the
uncanny. It was a picture and a poem in one--these first, then a
building!

Now it fortunately so happened that the night before at Horncastle we
had met a Lincolnshire clergyman who took much interest in our journey,
past and to come; and, thoughtful-minded, hearing that we proposed to
explore Tennyson’s country, and knowing that we were total strangers in
the land, most kindly offered us introductions to the owners of one or
two interesting houses on our way. Somersby Grange, we found, was one of
these houses, therefore when we saw the house we felt how fortune
favoured us. So, armed with our introduction we boldly made our way to
the front door and were made welcome, the lady of the house herself
good-naturedly volunteering to show us over. Somehow it seemed on our
tour, as I believe I have remarked of a former one, that whenever we met
a stranger there we found a friend, and oftentimes, as in this instance,
a most kind friend too. This making of friends on the way is one of the
special delights of desultory travel by road.

Within, Somersby Grange had quite a cheerful aspect that wholly belied
its exterior gloom,--a cheerfulness that we almost resented, for with it
all mystery vanished, and the air of romance seemed to fade away. The
front door opened directly into a well-lighted panelled hall with a
groined ceiling above. The interior was not so interesting as we
expected--but then we expected so much. The most notable objects here
were the cellars, of which there are a number all below the ground
level, so naturally dark and dismal; these tradition asserts to have
formerly been dungeons. Some of them have

[Sidenote: _DUNGEONS OR CELLARS_]

small arched recesses in the wall, in which, we understood, food for
prisoners was supposed to be placed. They certainly would have made
desirable dungeons, according to medieval ideas. And we were further
informed that certain antiquaries who had inspected the cellars
expressed their belief that they had been built for dungeons; possibly
the antiquaries in question were right. I always have a great respect
for the dictum of learned men, but in this instance, in spite of the
unknown authorities, and much as I dislike to differ from
well-established tradition, I still strongly incline to the opinion that
these underground places were simply intended for cellars. “Dungeons”
sounds more romantic truly, but why should such a house be provided with
dungeons? Besides, granted they were dungeons, then the difficult
question arises, “Where were the cellars?” For such a house, though it
might not need dungeons, would certainly require cellars, and bearing in
mind its date, a generous allowance thereof!

We were told also that there is a tradition, handed down with the house,
according to which there is a long secret subterranean passage leading
from one of these cellars to some spot without; but I have heard so many
similar stories before of so many other places, that with respect to all
such mysterious passages I can only say, “Seeing’s believing.” The
Grange is a substantial building; its walls being three feet thick make
it delightfully cool in summer and as delightfully warm in winter. The
dweller in the modern villa, mis-termed “desirable” by its owner, knows
nothing of the luxury of such thick walls, nor the saving in coal bills
entailed thereby. Somersby Grange is a house to entice the modern
speculative builder into, and having done so to point out to him the
solid substance thereof as an example of the liberal use of material
over and above that nicely calculated as the minimum required to outlast
a ground lease. Then possibly the speculative builder would justly reply
that to build houses like that to sell would mean the bankruptcy court.
These old houses were built for homes, not for one generation, but for
many. I am afraid that the changed conditions of life, owing mainly to
the cheap communication and rapid transit provided by railways, have
caused home building to become almost a lost art. Why, instead of a
family living for generations in one place, it is a matter of surprise
if they stay more therein than a few years; three appears to be a very
general and favourite term!

The interior of Somersby Grange, I have to confess, disappointed us
after the promise of its romantic exterior. We failed to discover any
old-time tradition connected therewith, no picturesque elopement, no
hiding-place for fugitives, no horrible murder--no ghost. Indeed the old
home seems to have led quite a respectable and uneventful existence--it
is like a novel without a plot!




CHAPTER XVII

     A decayed fane--Birds in church--An old manorial hall--Curious
     creations of the carver’s brain--The grotesque _in excelsis_--The
     old formal garden--Sketching from memory--The beauty of the
     Wolds--Lovely Lincolnshire!--Advice heeded!--A great character--A
     headless horseman--Extremes meet--“All’s well that ends well.”


From Somersby we drove to Bag Enderby. What is the meaning of the
curious and distinguishing prefix “bag” it is difficult to divine; it
cannot be from “bog,” for the hamlet is in the hills and there are no
bogs about, nor are there likely to have been any even in the
prehistoric times. It might perhaps, but doubtfully, be derived from the
Anglo-Saxon “boc,” a beech, but this is merely unprofitable guessing.
The old church here is very picturesque, externally at any rate, but
somewhat dilapidated when we were there, and in want of repair. Like
that of Somersby its tower is scarred and weather-worn and picturesque
with the picturesqueness of strong decay; by this I mean that though the
face of the soft sandstone of which it is built has crumbled away in
places so as to give it a pathetic look of untold age, still the decay
is merely on the surface, and the softer portions of the stone-work
having suffered, the strongest and most enduring remain. The weathering
is such as to cause a look rather than a reality of weakness, the walls
are massive enough to stand for ages yet, the old builders were
fortunately lavish of material; they built for time, if not eternity!

Within, the church shows such unmistakable signs of a regular
restoration during the Churchwarden era and of having been untouched
since, that it is very interesting as an object lesson of that period of
ecclesiastical art,--so few churches being now left to us in this state.
Here we noticed the long out-of-date high-backed pews, with a large
square family one in the midst, presumably the squire’s. The woodwork of
some of these pews was worm-eaten, and the cushions thereof mostly
moth-holed. The pulpit is a two-decker affair of plain panelled deal,
such as in a few more years one may expect to find only in a museum--if
there.

We noticed on looking up that where the roof joined the tower, or rather
failed to join it, we could clearly see the sky, and so on wet days the
rain must have free entry to the nave; fortunately there are no pews
immediately below! Still in spite of all, or shall I say because of all
this, the poor old church appealed to us. It was so charmingly innocent
of any attempt at “art” decoration, it happily boasted no pavement of
garish tiles suggestive of the modern villa, no Birmingham bright
brass-work, no crudely coloured stained-glass windows to offend the eye.
Take the pews and pulpit away and it would at once have been
delightfully picturesque, and even pews and pulpit sinned artistically
and architecturally solely in form, for Time had carefully toned them
down to a

[Sidenote: _THE CHURCHWARDEN ERA_]

perfectly harmless if not an actually pleasing tint. At any rate there
was no irritating pretence at misunderstood art; no imitation--a long
way off--of medievalism; no false note. The churchwarden was no artist;
but then he did not pretend to be one, so far I respect him; and he has
wrought infinitely less harm in our churches than the professional
restorer, so far I positively bless him! for he did not, of set purpose,
destroy old work to show how much better he could do it another way!
Truly he was over-fond of whitewashing walls, but this did not destroy
them, nor the ancient chiselling thereon. He was not enthusiastic about
stained glass, perhaps because it was expensive, and so he preferred
plain leaded lights through which one can see the blue sky, green trees,
and sunlit country; and certainly, though for other reasons, I prefer,
infinitely prefer, plain leaded lights to stained glass--unless the
stained glass be very good indeed, much better than ever was obtainable
in the churchwarden period. In fine, I consider that the old
art-ignorant, much-abused churchwarden has done, comparatively, but
small lasting harm to our old churches; his whitewash, that has often
preserved interesting frescoes, can be easily removed without hurt, his
pews and pulpits can almost as readily be removed. But the havoc a
“clever” and proudly opinionated restorer is oftentimes allowed to do
with impunity is beyond recall. However it may be I would much rather
have the interior of Bag Enderby church, primitive as it is, with its
ancient stone pavement in which the ancient brasses were set, than that
of Somersby church with its prim and proper seats, and modern tiled
floor, both of which remind me painfully of a recently erected suburban
church raised by contract and at the lowest tender “To the glory of
God!”

We found a lady in the church; who she was, or why she was there, I
cannot tell. We judged that possibly she was the rector’s wife or his
daughter; but this was pure conjecture, for we did not even know if the
rector were married. Moreover, who she was, or why there, concerned us
not. I am glad we met her, for she was most courteous in giving us all
the information it was in her power to impart. Truly, we had become
quite accustomed to such courtesies from utter strangers, but custom did
not diminish their pleasantness. By way of introduction she remarked
that “the church sadly needed some repairing.” We agreed, whether
uttered purposely or by accident, we were delighted to hear the
expression “repairing” employed instead of “restoring.” “We’re afraid,”
continued she, “that some day the roof may fall down upon us during
service.” We ventured to hope that it would fall down some other time.
We tried to be sympathetic, and endeavoured to look properly concerned
when we learnt that there were “bats in the belfry,” and that “birds
make themselves quite at home in the nave, Sundays as well as
week-days.” We were shocked to hear such bad behaviour of the
Lincolnshire birds; but, as we remarked, “birds will be birds all the
world over.”

Observing an ancient brass let into the pavement in the centre of the
church, with an inscription

[Sidenote: _AN ANCIENT BRASS_]

thereon that looked interesting, we began to examine it; but the
lettering was somewhat indistinct from wear, besides being in those
puzzling straight up-and-down lines so much favoured in the fifteenth
century, and we found considerable difficulty in deciphering it in its
entirety, a difficulty enhanced by the dim light at the moment. The
strange lady was unable to help us here, but promised, if we would give
her our name and address, that she would send us a rubbing of the brass.
The kindness of strangers never seemed to fail us, for on our return
home we duly found a letter awaiting us with a careful rubbing of the
brass enclosed therein. Provided with this, all at our leisure, we read
the inscription thus:--_Orate p’ aīa Albini d’Enderby qui fecit fieri
istam ecclesiam cum campanile qui obiit in Vigilia s[=c]i Mathie [=ap]o
Āº D[=n]i MCCCCVII._, which we roughly did into English: “Pray for the
soul of Albinus of Enderby, who caused to be made this church, with
bell-tower, who died in the vigil of St. Mathius the apostle, 1407.”

The ancient font here is decorated with some curious devices carved in
shields; the chief of these we made out--rightly or wrongly, for I
should not like to be considered authoritative on the point--to be the
Virgin holding the dead Christ; a man, possibly David, playing on a
harp; a hart with a tree (query “the tree of life”) growing out of his
back, which tree the hart is licking with his tongue; a cross surrounded
by a crown of thorns, and others. This font was raised above the
pavement by a stone slab, a slab that, I regret to add, as is all too
plainly manifest, once formed a notable tombstone, for it is finely
incised with a figure and inscription, in great part now covered over by
the font! This fine slab, originally oblong in shape, has at some time
been deliberately broken in half in order to make it into a square, and
further than this, the four corners of the square thus constructed have
their ends chiselled away so as to form an octagonal base, more for the
saving of space and convenience than ornament, we imagined. This
plundering the dead in such a barefaced fashion, even when done for
religious purposes, is not a pleasant thing to contemplate.

In one of the windows of the church is preserved a fragment of ancient
stained glass that possibly possesses a history, as it represents the
armorial bearings of Crowland Abbey, namely, three knives and three
scourges, and may have come from there. Amongst the tombs we noticed a
mural monument in the chancel to Andrew Gendney, Esquire, who is
represented in armour, with his wife and children. This monument,
bearing date of 1591, still shows traces of its original colouring
though over three centuries old.

Near the church stands a fine elm tree with a long low projecting branch
close to the ground. This branch, we were told, was long enough to seat
all the inhabitants of the parish, which shows how extraordinarily long
the branch is, or how few the inhabitants of this remote hamlet are--we
understood the latter was the case.

We next drove to “the old manorial hall” of Harrington, our road being
bordered by fine old branching oaks and leafy elms, the shade of which
was very grateful; for though September, the sun shone down in a manner
worthy of the dog-days. Reaching our destination, and armed with our
introduction, we at once made our way to the rectory. Here we readily
obtained the keys both of the church and the Hall, and were provided,
moreover, with a servant to act as guide.

Externally Harrington Hall is a bright, sunny-looking, red-brick
building, mostly of the Jacobean period, but much modernised, even to
the extent of sash-windows. Over the entrance is a stone slab let into
the brick-work, and carved with a coat-of-arms. By the side of this is a
sun-dial, with the date 1681 engraved thereon. On either side of the
doorway are mounting-blocks with steps, very convenient for
horse-riders, so much so that I often wonder why they have so generally
disappeared.

[Sidenote: _A DESERTED HALL_]

The old house was tenantless and empty, and wore a sadly forsaken look.
In one respect it was the very reverse of Somersby Grange, for while as
cheerful in outward appearance as the latter was sombre, within the
deserted hall was gloomy and ghost-like, with dismal, if large,
bed-chambers leading one into the other in an uncomfortable sort of way,
and huge cupboards like little windowless rooms, and rambling
passages--a house that had manifestly been altered from time to time
with much confusion to its geography. “A sense of mystery” hung over
all, and suggested to us that the place must be haunted. But here again,
though the very house for a ghost to disport himself in, or to be the
home of a weird legend, it was unblest with either as far as we could
make out. A promise of romance there was to the eye, but no fulfilment!

One old chamber, called “the oak room,” interested us greatly on account
of its exceedingly curious carvings. This chamber was panelled from
floor to ceiling. For about three-quarters of the height upwards the
panelling was adorned with “linen-pattern” work; above this, round the
top of the room, forming a sort of frieze, ran a series of most
grotesque carvings, the continuity of the frieze being only broken just
above the fireplace, which space was given over to the heraldic pride of
various coats-of-arms. Each panel that went to form the frieze had some
separate, quaint, or grotesque subject carved thereon; some of the
designs, indeed, were so outrageous as to suggest the work of a
craftsman fresh from Bedlam! There is a quaintness that overruns its
bounds and becomes mere eccentricity.

The grotesque creations of the old monks, though highly improbable and
undesirable beings, still looked as though they might have actually
lived, and struggled, and breathed. The grotesque creations of the
carver of the panels in this room failed in this respect. One could
hardly, in the most romantically poetic mood, have given the latter
credit for ever existing in this or any other planet where things might
be ordered differently; they are all, or nearly all, distinctly
impossible. On one of these panels is shown a creature with the head and
neck of a swan, the body of a fish (from which body proceed scaled wings
of the prehistoric reptile kind),

[Sidenote: _ECCENTRICITIES IN CARVING_]

and a spreading feathered tail, somewhat like a peacock’s; the creature
had one human foot and one claw!--a very nightmare in carving, and a bad
nightmare to boot! Another nondescript animal, leaning to a dragon, was
provided with two heads, one in the usual place, and one in the tail
with a big eye, each head regarding the other wonderingly. Another
creature looked for all the world like a gigantic mouse with a long
curling tail, but his head was that of a man. Space will not allow me to
enumerate all these strange carvings in detail. It was the very room,
after a late and heavy supper such as they had in the olden times, to
make a fêted guest dream bad dreams.

The gardens at Harrington Hall, though modest in extent, make delightful
wandering, with their ample walks and old-fashioned flower-beds, formal
and colourful, the colours being enhanced by a background of ivy-covered
wall and deep-green yew hedge. But what charmed us most here was a
raised terrace with a very wide walk on the top. From this we could look
down on the gardens on one hand and over the park-like meadows on the
other, the terrace doing duty as a boundary wall as well as a raised
promenade--an excellent idea. Why, I wonder, do we not plan such
terraces nowadays? they form such delightful promenades and are so
picturesque besides, with a picturesqueness that recalls many an
old-world love story and historical episode. What would the gardens of
Haddon Hall be without the famous terrace, so beloved by artists, and so
often painted and photographed? With the coming of the landscape
gardener, alas! the restful past-time garden of our ancestors went out
of fashion, and with it the old garden architecture also. Formerly the
artificialness of the garden was acknowledged. The garden is still an
artificial production--Nature more or less tamed--but instead of
glorying in the fact we try to disguise it. The architect’s work now
stops at the house, so we find no longer in our gardens the quaint
sun-dial, the stone terrace, the built summer-house--a real house,
though tiny, and structurally decorative--the recessed and roomy
seat-ways that Marcus Stone so delights to paint, the fountains, and the
like; yet what pleasant and picturesque features they all are! Now we
have the uncomfortable rustic seat and ugly rustic summer-house of wood,
generally deal, and varnished, because they look more rural! Still there
are some people who think the old way best!

The small church at Harrington is apparently a modern building,
containing, however, in strange contrast to its new-looking walls, a
series of ancient and very interesting tombs. I say the church is
apparently modern, for I have seen ancient churches so thoroughly
restored as to seem only just finished. But the restorer, or rebuilder,
here deserves a word of praise for the careful manner in which the
monuments of armoured warriors and others, ages ago dust and ashes, have
been cared for. These monuments are to the Harrington and Coppledike
families, and range from the thirteenth to the seventeenth centuries,
supplying a good example of almost every style of sepulchral memorial to
the dead, beginning with the stone effigy, in full armour, of Sir Iohn
de Harrington, who is represented with his legs crossed; then passing
through incised slabs and brasses to the more elaborate altar-tomb; and
from this to the mural monument, where the figures are shown as
kneeling, not recumbent; and lastly, to the period when the sculptured
figures disappear altogether, and the portraits of the underlying dead
give place to mere lettering setting forth the many virtues of the
departed worthies.

[Sidenote: _A VAIN SEARCH_]

Harrington Hall is another of the places that people, in a vain search
after the original of Locksley Hall, have imagined might have stood for
the poet’s picture, presumably because of its proximity to Somersby,
for, as far as the building goes, it affords no clue that “one can catch
hold of.” It is an old hall, and there the likeness appears to begin and
end! In spite of Tennyson’s disclaimer, I cannot but feel that, though
no particular spot suggested Locksley Hall to him, it is quite possible,
if not probable, that he may, consciously or unconsciously, have taken a
bit from one place, and a bit from another, and have pieced them
together so as to form a whole--a vague whole truly, but still a
tangible whole.

To show how unknowingly such a thing may be done, I may mention that I
once remember painting a mountain-and-river-scape that I fondly imagined
I had evolved from my own brain. As I was at work on this an artist
friend (with whom I had often painted in North Wales, our favourite
sketching ground) chanced to look in for a smoke and a chat. “Hullo!”
exclaimed he, “what have you got there? Why, it’s Moel Siabod and the
Llugwy, though I don’t know the exact point of view.” For the moment I
deemed he was joking, as was his wont; but on looking again at the
canvas with fresh eyes I saw that, quite unwittingly, I had repeated the
general outline of that mountain, with even some details of the
landscape of the valley below--not by any means an accurate
representation of the scene, but sufficiently like to show how much I
was unconsciously indebted to the original for my composition. I have
still the painting by me, and on showing it to a friend well acquainted
with the district, and after so far enlightening him as to say it was a
Welsh view, he declared he knew the very spot I had painted it from! So
powerful oftentimes are impressions; for it was solely a forgotten
impression I had painted!

Now, it happened that later on our journey we mentioned to a stranger
(with whom we gossiped, as we always do with interesting strangers we
come across, if they will) the fact that so struck us about Harrington
Church, its looking so new, whilst the tombs inside were so old. He
exclaimed in reply, “Well, you see the old church was pulled down and
entirely rebuilt. It was a pity, but it had to be. Its foundations had
given way so that the building was slowly sinking into the ground.” This
remark brought to our mind one of the few possible clues of subject
detail, as showing some distinct local colouring, for in “Locksley Hall
Sixty Years After,” we read:--

[Sidenote: _COINCIDENCES_]

    Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into the ground,
    Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet upon the hound.

    Cross’d! for once he sail’d the sea to crush the Moslem in his pride;
    Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in which he died.

There truly in Harrington Church is the warrior with his legs crossed,
and Harrington is within an easy ramble of Somersby, so doubtless the
old church, then possibly “sinking into the ground,” with its tombs and
ancient hall, were well known to Tennyson in his youth, and doubtless
were lastingly impressed upon his romantic mind. It is just the spot
that would impress any one of a poetic temperament even now, but more so
then than now, when the church was in pathetic decay, broken down with
the burden of centuries! It will not escape notice that Tennyson clings
to the old tradition that a cross-legged effigy necessarily represents a
crusader. Perhaps it is too much to expect a poet to do otherwise, in
spite of the dictum of Dr. Cox (before mentioned) and that of other
learned authorities who can find it in their hard hearts to destroy a
pleasant bit of picturesque and purely harmless fiction.

From Harrington we returned to Horncastle by a roundabout route, passing
through South Ormsby and Tetford, a route that led us through the heart
of the wild Wolds, and gave us a good insight into its varied and
characteristic scenery. A very enjoyable drive it proved, down dale and
over hill, past many-tinted woods, gorgeous in their autumn colouring,
through sleepy hamlets, and across one little ford, with a foot-bridge
at the side for pedestrians, with the rounded hills bounding our
prospect on every hand. Now the hills would be a wonderful purple-gray
in cloud shadow, anon a brilliant golden green as the great gleams of
sunshine raked their sloping sides, lighting them up with a warm glory
that hardly seemed of this world, so ethereal did they make the solid
landscape look.

There is a charm of form, and there is also a charm of colour, less
seldom looked for or understood; but when one can have the two at their
best combined, as in this instance, then the beauty of a scene is a
thing to be remembered, to make a mental painting of, to be recalled
with a sense of refreshment on a dreary winter’s day when the dark fog
hangs thick and heavy like a pall over smoky London. P. G. Hamerton,
who, if a poor painter, was an excellent critic, and a clever writer
upon art (for, like Ruskin, he had a message to give), remarks, “In the
Highlands of Scotland we have mountains, but no architecture; in
Lincolnshire architecture, but no mountains.” Well, I feel inclined to
retort, Lincolnshire _has_ the architecture--and the Wolds. Truly, the
Wolds are not mountains, but picturesquely they will do as a background
to architecture even better than mountains. Mountains resent being
turned into a mere background to architecture; they are too big, too
important, far too assertive; the Wolds are dreamy and distant,--so the
very thing.

Many years ago, when they were less known, and little thought of or
admired, I spoke of the Norfolk Broads as a land of beauty, worthy of
the

[Sidenote: _PICTURESQUE LINCOLNSHIRE_]

attention of tourists and artists. I was smiled at for my pains. Now the
painter revels in the Broads, and the tourist has discovered them.
To-day I say that Lincolnshire is a land of lovely landscapes, and that
its scenery is most paintable and picturesque to those who have eyes to
see, and this I have endeavoured to show in some of my sketches. Still I
expect to be smiled at for the assertion. “Whoever heard of Lincolnshire
being picturesque?” I can fancy people saying. The very remark was made
to me when I proclaimed the beauty of the Broads. I bide my time, and
wonder when artists will discover Lincolnshire. To be honest, however, I
have heard of one artist who has discovered it, but he is very reticent
about his “find.” Wise man he! If a landscape painter feels he is
getting “groovy,” and I fear a good many are, let him come to
Lincolnshire! Some centres in the county truly are better for his
purpose than others, but I will not particularise. I dread even the
remote chance of bringing down the cheap tripper. Once I innocently
wrote, and in enthusiastic terms, of the charms of a certain beauty-spot
that I thought was strangely overlooked and neglected. Well, I have
cause to repent my rashness, and accept the well-intentioned hint thrown
out to me by the _Saturday Review_ some few years ago, thus: “Let Mr.
Hissey ponder, and in his topography particularise less in the future.
Our appeal, we know, places him in an awkward dilemma; but he can still
go on the road and write his impressions without luring the speculative
builder, etc. ... if he deals delicately with his favourite
beauty-spots, and forbears now and then to give local habitation and
name.” Most excellent advice! That I have followed it to some extent is,
I think, shown by the later remarks of the same critic, who writes of a
more recent work of mine: “We are relieved to note that Mr. Hissey does
not wax eloquent concerning one of the most beautiful and unspoilt towns
in Sussex. He passes through it with commendable reticence.” It is a
pleasant experience for a critic and an author to be of one mind; for an
author to profit by a critic’s criticisms!

Returning, in due course, to our comfortable quarters at Horncastle, on
dismounting from our dog-cart there we noticed an old man standing
expectantly in the yard. He was oddly dressed in that shabby-genteel
manner that reminded us very much of the out-at-elbows nobleman of the
melodrama stage, for in spite of his dress his bearing impressed us; it
was dignified. He at once came up to us and exclaimed, “I’ve got
something to show you, that I’m sure you would like to see.” I am afraid
that we were just a little heated and tired with our long drive and
day’s explorations; moreover, we were looking eagerly forward to a
refreshing cup of afternoon tea, so that we rather abruptly rejected the
advances made; but the stranger looked so disappointed that we at once
repented our brusqueness, and said we should be pleased to see what he
had to show us. Whereupon he beamed again, and pulling an envelope out
of his pocket he extracted therefrom a piece of paper, which he handed
to us for our inspection, with a smile. On this we read--

[Sidenote: _A MAN OF MANY ACCOMPLISHMENTS_]

                            Marie Corelli,
                           with best wishes.
                         September 12th, 1897.
                              Horncastle.

“There now,” he exclaimed, “Miss Corelli, the famous novelist, wrote
that for me the other day when she was in Horncastle. I thought you
would like to see her handwriting. I’ve lots of interesting things I
could show you at my house if you like. I’ve got letters from other
great people. I’ve got Robert Burns’s--Bobbie Burns I calls
him--snuffbox, for which I have been offered £200 and refused it. I’m a
poet, too, and have composed a lot of original poems. I can sing a song
with any man. I’m a ventriloquist also, and have given entertainments
lasting two hours. I’m the oldest cricketer in England; but I won’t
detain you longer now. I could go on for an hour or more all about
myself, but I daresay you are tired with driving. Here is my name and
address,” handing us at the same time a rather dirty card. “Now, if you
would allow me, I should be pleased to show you round our town at any
time, and point out all the interesting things therein, for it is a very
interesting old place.”

Manifestly we had come upon a character, curious above the general run
of characters; the man interested us, we felt glad to have met him, and
thereupon arranged that he should show us over the town in half an
hour’s time. So he departed with a smile promising to meet us in the
hotel yard in half an hour. Then we sought the ostler and asked him
about the stranger. We were informed that he was a Mr. Baker, who kept a
small sweetmeat-shop in the place, and was a great antiquary. “He always
goes after strangers who come here. I expect he saw you come in
yesterday; he’s been hanging about the yard all the afternoon expecting
you back. He’s a regular character.” So we had concluded; still,
antiquarianism and selling sweetmeats did seem an odd mixture!

It so happened that a day or two after this, chance threw us
unexpectedly in the company of the famous novelist, who was staying at
the same hotel in a Lincolnshire village that we stopped at, and during
the course of a conversation about many things, we told her the amusing
incident of our being shown her autograph at Horncastle. It appeared
that out of pure good-nature Miss Marie Corelli had given Mr. Baker her
signature, as he had boldly come to her and asked for it! Possibly had
he not been such a manifest character he would not have obtained it so
readily, for the autograph-hunter has become a nuisance in the land!
Somehow it has always been our fate when taking our driving expeditions
to become acquainted with at least one or more notable persons. This
tour proved no exception to the rule.

We found Mr. Baker duly awaiting us at the time and place mentioned.
First he took us to the church, wherein he pointed out to us thirteen
scytheheads hanging on the north wall, three of which were mounted at
the end of poles so as to make rough but effective spears; these, he
told us, were relics of

[Sidenote: _A WORTHY KNIGHT_]

the battle of Winceby Hill, and it was with these primitive but at the
period formidable weapons that the Lincolnshire rustics were armed who
helped materially to overthrow the King’s forces. The rusting relics of
the never-returning past interested us, and as we looked upon them the
centuries gone seemed somehow to narrow down to years; the mind is
beyond time and space! Then our guide pointed out to us the tomb of Sir
Ingram Hopton, who was slain at the fight, having previously unseated
Cromwell during the struggle. His epitaph, inscribed upon a mural
tablet, runs as follows:--

                         Here Lyeth ye worthy
                      And Honorable Kt. Sr Ingram
                       Hopton who paid his debt
                    To Nature and Duty to his King
                      And Country in the Attempt
                       Of seising ye Arch-Rebel
                      In the Bloody skirmish near
                      Winceby: Octr ye 6th. A.D.
                                 1643.

“There is a tradition,” said Mr. Baker, “that Sir Hopton was killed by
having his head struck off at a blow, whereupon his horse rushed away
with his headless body, and did not stop till he came to the knight’s
front door at Horncastle. But I cannot answer for the truth of the
story, so you can form your own conclusions in the matter,” which we
did. Now our self-appointed guide led us to one of the side aisles, and
began to lift the matting up from the pavement, in search of a tombstone
he wished to show us, but for some inexplicable reason he could not
readily find it. “It can’t surely have run away?” we exclaimed, amused
at the perplexity of the searcher; “tombstones don’t often do that.” But
the light was rapidly fading; already it was too dim to read
inscriptions on the dusky flooring, darkened further by the shadows of
the pews, so we left the tomb unseen. If I remember aright it was to the
memory of Tennyson’s parents-in-law.

Mr. Baker then invited us to his house, an invitation we accepted; we
were taken there by what appeared to be a very roundabout way, in order,
we imagined, that our guide might point out to us one or two things of
interest. First we were shown the square red-brick house near the church
which was formerly the home of Mr. Sellwood, whose eldest daughter
Tennyson married. Except for this second-hand kind of fame the house is
not notable in any way; it is of a comfortable old-fashioned type,
without any architectural pretensions whatever--a type that possesses
the negative virtue of neither attracting nor offending the eye. As Mr.
Baker was a very old man (he told us he was born on 1st November 1814),
we ventured to ask him if by any chance he remembered seeing Tennyson as
a youth when living at Somersby. He told us that when he was a boy he
distinctly remembered Tennyson as a young man. “We did not think much of
him then; he used to go rambling miles away from home without his hat;
we used to think him a little strange. I have been told as how when he
was a boy he was a bit wild like, and would get on a mule and make him
go by rattling a tin box, with marbles in it, right over the animal’s
ears. He used to be very fond of going into the fields all alone, and
lying on his back on the grass smoking a pipe. He was very reserved, and
did not talk to people much; and that’s about all I know or have heard
about him. You see, sir, ‘a prophet hath no honour in his own country,’
that’s Scripture, so it must be true.” We nodded assent.

[Sidenote: _IN STRANGE QUARTERS_]

Then Mr. Baker showed us Sir Ingram Hopton’s old home in the main
street, and going down a narrow lane pointed out some bits of rough and
ruined masonry, now built into walls and cottages; these crumbling bits
of masonry, we were told, formed portions of the old castle. I must,
however, confess that when castles come to this state of decay, they
fail to arouse my sympathies, for their history in stone is over, and
all their picturesqueness gone. After this we came to Mr. Baker’s little
sweetmeat-shop, situated in a by-street; we were ushered through the
shop into a tiny and somewhat stuffy sitting-room. Here we were bidden
to take a chair, and imagine ourselves at home; we did the former, the
latter was beyond our power, the surroundings were so unfamiliar! Then
Mr. Baker produced a parcel of letters written direct to him from sundry
more or less notable people; three of these, we observed, to our
surprise, were stamped at the top with the well-known name of an English
royal palace. They were all addressed to “Dear Mr. Baker,” and bore the
signature below of a royal personage! As we looked round the tiny humble
parlour at the back of the sweetmeat-shop immediately after glancing at
the letters, a certain sense of the incongruity of things struck us
forcibly. Then we were handed another letter from the famous cricketer,
Mr. W. G. Grace, complimenting Mr. Baker on his old round-arm bowling!
“Maybe you would hardly think it,” remarked our host, “to look at me
now, a gray old man, but I was a great cricketer once. Why, I bowled out
at the very first ball the late Roger Iddison, when he was captain of
the All-England Eleven.” We felt inclined just then to say that we could
believe anything! So we accepted the statement as a matter of course
that the French (which one we were not told) Ambassador had been to see
Mr. Baker. After this we were allowed to gaze upon and even handle his
treasure of treasures, namely, the snuff-box of “Bobbie Burns, the great
Scotch poet,” in the shape of a small horn with a silver lid. This, we
were assured, had once belonged to Burns. It may have done; anyway, on
the lid is inscribed “R. B., 1768,” and it looks that age.

Mr. Baker informed us that though he kept only a very small and
unpretending sweet-shop, his mother’s ancestors were titled, “but really
the deed makes the nobleman and I make excellent sweets. I send them
everywhere,” he said; “you must try them,” whereupon he presented us
with a tin box full of his “Noted Bull’s-Eyes.” Let me here state that
the bull’s-eyes proved to be most excellent. I make this statement on
the best authority, having given them to my children, and children
should be the best judges of such luxuries, and they pronounced

[Sidenote: _PARDONABLE IGNORANCE_]

them “most delicious.” Then Mr. Baker insisted upon singing to us an old
English song; he would have added some ventriloquism, but we said that
we really could not trespass upon his valuable time and hospitality any
longer, so we took our departure, and sought the ease of our inn. We
have come upon a goodly number of characters during our many driving
tours, but I do not think that we have ever come upon a greater one than
Mr. Baker; long may he live yet! That I had never heard of him before I
arrived in Horncastle seemed genuinely to surprise him! Well, I had not,
“there are so many famous people in the world,” as I explained in
excuse, “nowadays you cannot really know of them all!” “That’s quite
true, sir,” replied he, and we parted the best of friends. I am sure I
was forgiven for my ignorance, for a little later that evening a parcel
came for me to my hotel, and I found it to contain a quantity of
gingerbread, “With Mr. Baker’s compliments!”




CHAPTER XVIII

     A friend in a strange land--Horse sold in a church--A sport of the
     past--Racing the moon!--Facts for the curious--The Champions of
     England--Scrivelsby Court--Brush magic--Coronation cups--A unique
     privilege--A blundering inscription--A headless body--Nine miles of
     beauty--Wragby--At Lincoln--Guides and guide-books--An awkward
     predicament.


That evening, whilst looking over our day’s sketches and notes in our
cosy parlour at the Bull, we had a pleasant surprise. “A gentleman to
see you,” said the be-ribboned waitress, whereupon in walked the
antiquarian clergyman whose acquaintance we had made the day before, and
who had so kindly given us introductions to the owners of Somersby
Grange and Harrington Old Hall. “I’ve just looked in,” exclaimed he, “to
hear how you have fared and enjoyed your little exploration--and for a
chat,” and we bade him a hearty welcome. It was in truth very pleasant
to find such good friends in strangers in a strange land!

A very delightful evening we spent together; our friend was a mine of
information, a treasury of memories--apparently an inexhaustible mine
and treasury--to say nothing of his store of old folk-lore. As he
talked, I smoked the pipe of perfect peace--and listened, and took
copious notes, most of which,

[Sidenote: _A HORSE-DEALING STORY_]

it proved afterwards, owing to the hurry in jotting them down, I could
not make much of! One story amongst the number, however, I managed to
take down in a readable form. This relates to an incident that took
place last century at one of the great Horncastle horse fairs, a story
that we were assured was “absolutely authentic.” I grant, for an
authentic story, that the date is rather vague, but the exact one was
given us, only I cannot make out my figures beyond 17--, but this is a
detail; however, the vicar’s name is stated, which may afford a clue as
to about the year. I transcribe the story from my notebook verbatim,
just as we took it down:--Horse sold in Horncastle Church. Two dealers
at the great horse fair in 17--tried to sell a horse to the vicar, Dr.
Pennington. At their breakfast one Sunday morning the two dealers made a
bet of a bottle of wine, one against the other, that he would sell his
horse to the vicar first. Both attended divine service, each going in
separately and unknown to the other. One sat by the door, intending to
catch the vicar as he came out; the other sat close under the pulpit. As
the vicar descended from the pulpit after a learned discourse, the
dealer under the pulpit whispered, “Your reverence, I’m leaving early
to-morrow morning, you’d better secure that mare.” The vicar whispered
reply, “I’ll have her.” There is perhaps not very much in the story, but
as we were assured by our clergyman friend that it was true, it may be
repeated as showing the free and easy manners of the period, when at
sundry times rural weddings and christenings had to be put off from one
day to another, because the parson was going out hunting! Yet somehow
those old parsons managed to get beloved by their parishioners. They did
not preach at them too hard, nor bother the rustic heads over-much about
saints’-days, fasts, and feasts, and not at all about vestments, lights
on the altar, or incense.

Bull-baiting, we learnt, used to be a favourite sport in Horncastle, and
until a few years ago the ring existed in the paved square to which the
unfortunate bull was attached. My informant knew an old woman who was
lifted on the shoulder of her father to see the last bull baited in
1812. He also related to us a story of a famous local event, “the racing
the moon from Lincoln to Horncastle,” a distance of twenty-one miles;
how that one day a man made a bet that he would leave Lincoln on
horseback as the moon rose there, and arrive in Horncastle before it
rose in that town, which apparently impossible feat may be explained
thus--Lincoln being situated on a hill, any one there could see the moon
rise over the low horizon some considerable time before it could be seen
rising at Horncastle, the latter place being situated in a hollow and
surrounded by heights. It appeared the man raced the moon, and lost by
only two minutes, which exact time he was delayed by a closed
toll-gate--and a very provoking way of losing a bet, we thought! Amongst
other minor things we were informed that the town cricket-field is still
called the “wong,” that being the Anglo-Saxon for field; also that just
outside Horncastle the spot on which the

[Sidenote: _THE PICTURESQUE CARED FOR_]

May Day games were held is still known as Maypole Hill. One old and
rather picturesque hostel in the town, the “King’s Head” to wit, is
leased, we learnt, on condition that it shall be preserved just as it
is, which includes a thatched roof. I would that all landlords were as
careful of the picturesque!

Respecting some curious old leaden coffins that had been recently
unearthed whilst digging foundations in the outskirts of Horncastle, of
which the date was uncertain, though the orientation of the coffins
pointed to the probability of Christian burial, we were assured that if
the lead were pure they would doubtless be of post-Roman date; but, on
the other hand, if the lead contained an admixture of tin, they were
almost certain to be Roman. A fact for the curious in such things to
make note of; according to which, however, it seemed to us, it would be
needful to have ancient lead analysed in order to pronounce upon its
date. I am glad to say that my antiquarianism has not reached this
scientific point, for it turns an interesting study into a costly toil.

Before leaving, our antiquarian friend said we must on no account miss
seeing Scrivelsby Court, the home of the Dymokes, the hereditary Grand
Champions of England, and lineal descendants of the Marmions. The duty
of the Grand Champion is, we understood, to be present at the coronation
on horseback, clad in a full suit of armour, gauntlet in hand, ready to
challenge the sovereign’s claims against all comers. After this the
Champion is handed a new gold goblet filled with wine, which he has to
quaff, retaining the cup which is of considerable value. “The house is
only two miles and a half from here; you must go there, and be sure and
see the gold coronation cups. I’ll give you a letter of introduction,”
exclaimed our good friend, and thereupon he called for pen and ink and
paper, and wrote it out at once. Having written and handed us this, he
further remarked: “You’ll drive into the park through an arched gateway
with a lion on the top; the lion has his foot raised when the family are
at home, and down when they are away. But now it’s getting late, and I
really must be off.” So our good-natured and entertaining companion,
with a hearty hand-shake, departed. Verily we did not fail for friends
on the road!

Early next morning we set out to drive to Scrivelsby Court; we could not
afford to wait till the afternoon to make our unexpected call--the day
was too temptingly fine for that; and moreover we had planned to be in
Lincoln that evening, where we expected to find letters from
home--Lincoln being one of our “ports of call” for correspondence and
parcels. It was a very pleasant and pretty drive from Horncastle to
Scrivelsby, the latter half of the way being wholly along a leafy and
deep-hedged lane green in shade, and having here and there a thatched
cottage to add to its picturesqueness--a bird-beloved lane of the true
Devonian type.

Presently we arrived at the stone-arched gateway that gives admission to
Scrivelsby Park; here above the Gothic arch we noticed the carved
aggressive-looking lion of which we had been told, with a crown

[Sidenote: _A “LION-GUARDED GATE”_]

on his rugged head, his paw raised and tail curled, keeping silent watch
and ward around, as he has done for centuries past. The gateway at once
brought to mind one of the few descriptive lines in “Locksley Hall Sixty
Years After”--

    Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the lion-guarded gate.

We had, fortunately, brought our copy of Tennyson with us into
Lincolnshire, so that we were enabled to refer to it from time to time.
Driving under the gateway, and along the smooth winding road across the
park, we soon came in sight of the house, the greater part of which is
unfortunately comparatively modern, and in the Tudor style, the old
mansion having been burnt down in 1765, but happily the ancient moat
still remains, and this with the time-toned outbuildings makes a
pleasant enough picture. Driving under another arched gateway we entered
the courtyard, with an old sun-dial in the centre; before us here we
noted a charming little oriel window over the entrance porch. Again we
were reminded of certain lines in the same poem that seemed to fit in
perfectly with the scene:--

    Here we met, our latest meeting--Amy--sixty years ago--

           *       *       *       *       *

    Just above the gateway tower.

and,

    From that casement where the trailer mantles all the mouldering bricks--

           *       *       *       *       *

    While I shelter’d in this archway from a day of driving showers--
    Peept the winsome face of Edith.

Now, first at Scrivelsby we have “the lion-guarded gate”; then the
second arched gateway we drove through may well be Tennyson’s “gateway
tower”; further still the “casement where the trailer mantles all the
mouldering bricks” might be the oriel window above the porch, as it is a
prominent feature from the archway. Though I may be wholly wrong, I
cannot help fancying that Scrivelsby has lent bits towards the building
up of Locksley Hall. Perhaps I may have looked for resemblances--and so
have found them; for it is astonishing how often we find what we look
for. “Trifles,” to the would-be-discoverer, are “confirmation strong as
proofs of holy writ.” Some short time ago I was calling on an artist
friend, and I observed hanging on the wall of his studio a charming
picture representing an ancient home, with great ivy-clad gables,
bell-turrets, massive stacks of clustering chimneys, mullioned windows,
and all that goes to make a building a poem. “What an ideal place,” I
promptly exclaimed; “do tell me where it is; I must see the original;
it’s simply a romance.” My friend’s reply was somewhat puzzling. “Well,
it’s in six different counties, so you can’t see it all at once!”
“Whatever do you mean?” I retorted. “Well,” he responded, “it’s a
composition, if you will know--a bit from one old place, and a bit from
another; the bell-turret is from an old Lancashire hall, that curious
chimney-stack is from a Worcestershire manor-house, that quaint window I
sketched in a Cotswold village, and so forth. I can’t locate the house,
or give it a distinguishing name, you see.” Now this incident

[Illustration: SCRIVELSBY: THE HOME OF THE CHAMPIONS OF ENGLAND.]

is an actual fact; if, therefore, an artist could create an old home
thus, why not a poet? The poet’s task would be by far the easier, for he
can so easily generalise; the painter must particularise, the latter
could not leave a “lion-guarded gate” to be imagined, he must draw it.
Both poet and painter may romance, but the painter has not nearly such a
free hand as the poet!

[Sidenote: _SCRIVELSBY COURT_]

Pulling up at the front door of Scrivelsby Court we sent in our letter
of introduction, hardly, however, expecting to be admitted at that early
hour; still our usual good fortune prevailed, for not only were we
admitted, but the lady of the house herself volunteered to show us over.
We observed a few suits of armour in the hall, and some heralds’
trumpets hung from the walls thereof with faded silken banners attached,
but much of interest was destroyed by the fire of the last century,
including the fine and famous old panelling carved with various
coats-of-arms. A number of the coronation cups were brought out for our
inspection; the majority of these were simply adorned with the initials
of the different kings, below which was the royal coat-of-arms.
Curiously enough the cup of George IV. was the most artistic by far--I
might safely say the only artistic one. On this, in place of the royal
arms in the centre, we have a figure of the Champion embossed there. He
is represented in a spirited manner mounted on a prancing charger,
holding his lance ready poised in one hand; and on the ground in front
of him lies his gauntlet as a challenge to all comers. The whole design
is enclosed in a raised wreath of laurel leaves. And a very creditable
bit of decorative work it is; wonderfully so considering the time--a
fact that seems to prove we have always the artist with us, though
certain periods do not encourage him to assert himself. Like the poet,
the artist is born, not made; and he may be born out of due season in an
inartistic age. On being asked to lift one of these cups we were
astonished at its weight; so little accustomed is one to handle gold in
the mass that the heaviness of the metal is not at the moment realised.

The hereditary Grand Championship of England is a privilege that goes
with the manor of Scrivelsby, and was instituted by the Conqueror; and
this brings to mind another peculiar privilege appertaining to the
family of “the fearless De Courcys,” granted as an acknowledgment of
valiant deeds done on the battlefield. The representatives of this
ancient family are entitled to the unique right of standing in the royal
presence with head covered, and when George IV. visited Ireland in 1821
the then representative of the De Courcys claimed his privilege and
stood before the king “bonneted”:--

    So they gave this graceful honour
      To the bold De Courcy’s race--
    That they ever should dare their helms to wear
      Before the king’s own face.
    And the sons of that line of heroes
      To this day their right assume;
    For when every head is unbonneted,
      They walk in cap and plume!

In the restored church of Scrivelsby most of the king’s Champions rest
in peace beneath their stately altar-tombs and ancient brasses. The tomb
here of Sir Robert Dymoke, who died in 1545, and who successively
performed the duties of Champion at the coronations of Richard III.,
Henry VII., and Henry VIII., is interesting to antiquaries on account of
a curious blunder in the inscription, he being termed thereon “knight
baronet” instead of “knight banneret,” as is proper--Sir Robert Dymoke,
for his services, being entitled to carry the banner of the higher order
of knighthood in place of the pennon of the ordinary knight. This
strange blunder has sadly perplexed many learned antiquaries, and many
theories have been suggested in explanation thereof. The simplest and
most probable explanation appears to me to be the quite excusable
ignorance of the engraver. It has been thought by some that the error is
due to a careless restoration, but I hardly think this to be the case,
as I imagine the inscription is the original one, unaltered. The sins of
the restorer are great enough surely without adding to them
problematically!

[Sidenote: _A GRUESOME DISCOVERY_]

Our good clerical and antiquarian friend at Horncastle had told us
overnight that some years ago, whilst making alterations in the flooring
of Scrivelsby church, a body was found in a coffin with a lump of clay
in the place where the head should be. This was the remains of the
Dymoke who fought against the king at the battle of Stamford, or as it
was popularly called, “Loose-Coat Field.” This Dymoke was taken prisoner
there, and afterwards beheaded, and his traitor-head was exposed on the
tower gateway of London Bridge. According to Drayton (_Polyolbion_,
xxii.) the men of the defeated army in this encounter

    Cut off their country’s coats to haste their speed away
    Which “Loose-Coat Field” is called e’en to this day.

Leaving storied and picturesque Scrivelsby with regret, we retraced our
road to Horncastle, and got on the old Lincoln turnpike highway there; a
splendid wide coaching road running for some miles along the top of an
elevated stretch of ground, from which we obtained glorious prospects
over a country of rolling hills (the Wolds) to our right, and over a
fine expanse of well-wooded land to our left, a sea of waving greenery
stretching away till lost in misty blue. I trust that our
coach-travelling ancestors--to whom was granted the privilege of seeing
their own country when they made a journey--enjoyed the scenery on the
way as much as we did that morning; if so their enjoyment must have been
great. But the love of scenery is of recent birth. I sadly fear that our
ancestors, from all accounts, thought far more of the comforts of their
inns than of the beauties of the landscape they passed through; as for
mountains they simply looked upon them as ugly obstructions to easy and
speedy travel, and heartily hated them accordingly!

It was one of those fine, fresh, breezy days that make it a delight
simply to be out of doors; the atmosphere was life-giving. The sky above
was compounded of about equal parts of deep, pure blue and of great
white rounded clouds, that as they sailed along caused a ceaseless play
of sunshine and shadow over all the spreading landscape. “Well,”
exclaimed my wife, “and this is Lincolnshire; I don’t wish for a
pleasanter country to travel in!” “Nor I,” was my response.

[Sidenote: _A DECAYED MARKET-TOWN_]

The first place we came to was Wragby, some nine miles from
Horncastle--nine miles of beauty, if uneventful ones. It was a restful,
refreshing stage, without anything special to do or to inspect on the
way. We had seen so much of late that we rejoiced for a change in a
day-dreamy progress with nothing to disturb our quiet enjoyment of the
greenful gladness of the smiling country-side. Wragby is a little
decayed market-town, clean and wind-swept; a slumberous spot that seems
simply to exist because it has existed. The only moving thing in it when
we arrived, as far as we could see, were the great sails of one tall
windmill that stood just where the houses ceased and the fields began,
and even these sails revolved in a lazy, leisurely fashion, as though
hurry were a thing unknown in the place. We did not catch a glimpse of
the miller, perhaps because he was asleep whilst the wind worked for
him! We did not see a soul in the streets or deserted market-square, but
possibly it was the local dinner-hour. So still all things seemed; the
clatter and rumbling of our dogcart sounded so loudly in the quiet
street, that we felt as though we ought almost to apologise to the
inhabitants for disturbing their ancient tranquillity. One can hardly
realise what perfect quietude means till one has experienced it in some
somnolent rural town at dinner-hour. Such places possess a stillness
greater than that of the country where the birds sing, the leaves of
the trees rustle in the wind, and the stream gurgles on its way--all in
the minor key truly, still noticeable--to which may be added the sounds
that proceed, and carry far, from the many farmsteads, the lowing of
cattle, the bleating of sheep, the bark of dog, the call of shepherd,
the rattle of the mowing or reaping machine. No, for perfect quietness
(or deadly dulness, if you will) commend me to some old, dreamy, decayed
market-town at mid-day!

Wragby is not a picturesque place, not by any stretch of the
imagination; nor, in the usual acceptance of the term, is it in any
possible way interesting. Yet it interested us, in a mild manner, on
account of its homely naturalness, its mellow look, and the
indescribable old-world air that brooded over all. It seemed to belong
to another day, as though in driving into it we had driven into a past
century as well. There was a sense of remoteness about the spot, both of
time and space, that appealed strongly to our feelings. A mere matter of
sentiment all this, a purely poetic illusion that we gladly gave way to
for the time; it is a good thing to be able to romance, now and then, in
this most unromantic age!

We drove under the archway of the drowsy and weather-beaten old inn that
faced us here, a plain structure enough, but it appealed to us as a
relic of the old coaching days. The stable-yard was deserted, erstwhile
so busy; for Wragby was an important posting place in the pre-railway
age, being the half-way house between Lincoln and Louth, as well as
between Lincoln and Horncastle; for at this spot those two highways
meet.

Having aroused some one and stabled our horses, we entered the ancient
hostelry, and were shown into a front sitting-room, where, doubtless, in
the days gone by, our forefathers feasted and made merry. The saddest
feature of this later age is the decay of joyousness in life; we travel
luxuriously certainly, but seriously, as we seem to do all else. Our
sitting-room had a look as though it had seen better times, the carpet,
curtains, and paper were worn and sun-faded, but the room was clean and
sweet, and the sunshine streaming in made it more cheerful, to me at any
rate, than certain sumptuously furnished drawing-rooms I know well,
where the inspiriting sunshine is carefully excluded by blinds, lest it
should fade the too expensive upholstering. Yet there is nothing so
decorative or so truly beautiful in a room; it is only the poor, if
expensive, modern material that fades shabbily. Good old stuff, a Turkey
or Persian carpet, old Oriental hangings, tone and improve rather by
light, their colours are simply softened down.

[Sidenote: _HUNGRY TRAVELLERS_]

“What can we have to eat?” we inquired. “Have you any cold meat?” No,
but they could perhaps get us a chop, or we could have some ham and
eggs, or bread and cheese. We were hungry, very hungry in fact, for
driving across country on a breezy, bracing day is a wonderful
appetiser; so, neglecting the counter attractions of bacon and eggs--the
standard dish of a homely country inn when other things fail--we elected
to have the certain bread and cheese rather than wait for the doubtful
chop; besides, sometimes chops are tough, and oftentimes they are fried,
and not grilled as they should be. Presently a coarse but spotless cloth
was laid upon the table, napkins were provided, and some wild flowers in
an ugly vase made a welcome decoration--the flowers, not the vase! Even
the vase had its lowly use, it enhanced the delicate beauty of the
flowers by contrast. After all we had no cause to regret our frugal
fare, for we enjoyed some delicious home-baked bread with a sweet
flavour and a deliciously crisp crust, quite a different article from
the insipid production of the London baker, and far more to be desired,
an excellent cheese, not made abroad, and some home-brewed ale,
nut-brown and foaming, which we quaffed with much satisfaction out of a
two-handled tankard. It was truly a simple repast, but then everything
of its kind was as good as it could be, and our bill came to only two
shillings--one shilling each!

Leaving Wragby we entered upon another very pleasant but uneventful
stretch of country; it was a reposeful afternoon, the wind had dropped,
and all nature was in a tranquil mood; in sympathy with her so were we.
In fact during the whole of the afternoon’s drive we neither sketched
nor photographed, nor descended once from the dogcart to see this or
that; we were content to behold the country from our comfortable seat in
a lazy sort of way; and there is a virtue in laziness sometimes. The
quiet, pastoral landscape had a drowsy aspect that was most
peace-bestowing. We drove leisurely on,

[Sidenote: _A LAZY LAND_]

satisfied simply to admire the extended and varied picture gallery that
nature presented to us free.

Except the striking prospect of Lincoln that we had towards the end of
our dreamy stage, I can only now recall of it a confused memory of green
and golden fields; of shady woods, beautiful with the many tints of
autumn; of hedgerowed lanes, that in a less lazy mood we should
certainly have explored; of picturesque old cottages and rambling
time-toned farmsteads, the very picture of contentment; of silvery
gliding streams, and a vague blue distance bounding all.

Passing through the long-streeted village of Langworth, a name derived,
I take it, from the Anglo-Saxon “lang” long, and “worth” a street or
place, so that it is suitably called,--the fine view of Lincoln Minster
and city aforementioned was suddenly presented to us, a view not readily
to be forgotten! There before us stood the ancient minster with its
three stately towers crowning the steep hill that rises so finely and
abruptly out of the clustering city below; the triple-towered fane
dominating the whole in a truly medieval fashion. No feudal castle ever
looked more masterful, or more lordly asserted its supremacy over the
dwellings of the people. What a change from the early days when the
Church, poor and persecuted like its Master, conquered the world by
humility! That day we beheld the Church triumphant. There is no
suggestion of poverty or humility about this majestic minster, but there
is a plentiful suggestion of dignity and Christian (?) pride. The
position of Lincoln Cathedral in stateliness is unrivalled in England,
with the possible exception of that of Durham which in a like manner
stands imperial upon its rocky height above the smoky city; but Durham
is dark and sombre, whilst Lincoln is bright and clean and beautiful. It
may perhaps, though doubtfully, be conceded that Durham has the more
romantic situation, and Lincoln the more picturesque--if one can
distinguish so.

Lincoln may roughly be divided into two distinct portions, the more
ancient and picturesque part being situated on the hill, and clustering
immediately around the cathedral; the other and more modern, very modern
mostly, with its railways and tram-lined streets, being situated on the
level-lying land below; the descent from the former to the latter is by
one of the steepest streets--it is called “the Steep” locally, if I
remember aright--I verily believe in all England; indeed, it seemed to
us, it could not well be much steeper without being perpendicular! In
the quaint and ancient part, with its many reminders of the long ago in
the shape of time-worn medieval buildings--from ruined castle, fortified
gateway, gray and gabled home--we found a comfortable and quiet inn,
such as befits a cathedral city; an inn standing almost under the shadow
of the stately pile, that rose upwards close by, a solemn shapely mass
of pearly-gray against the sunlit sky.

Having secured quarters for the night, the first thing we did was,
naturally, to start forth and see the cathedral. Pray do not be alarmed,
kind reader, I have neither the intention nor the desire to weary

[Sidenote: _GUIDES AND GUIDE-BOOKS_]

you with a long detailed description of the sacred edifice. For this I
will refer you to the guide-books, of which there are many; of their
quality or utility I cannot speak, for we did not consult one ourselves,
preferring to see the cathedral in our own way, and to form our own
opinions, and to admire what most impressed us, not what the handbook
compilers assert is the most to be admired. Of course by doing this it
is quite possible that we may have missed some things of minor note, but
nothing, I think, of real importance. Personally I have always found the
constant consulting of a guide-book not only to be disturbing but
preventive of my gaining an individual impression of a place, for one is
but too apt to be influenced to a greater or lesser extent by the
opinion of others, often expressed in a most irritatingly dogmatic
manner. Some people are so annoyingly certain about the most uncertain
things in this world! Moreover, once upon a time, as the fabled stories
of childhood begin, I placed implicit faith in guide-books, but as I
grew older and knew more, my faith in them, sad to relate, grew feebler,
and this because I found that in certain things I knew well about, they
were not by any means correct, indeed, often very inexact. After which
experience I now feel less inclined than perhaps I should be to trust
them in matters of which I am ignorant or not well informed. I may also
add that, according to my experience, the personal guide is even less
reliable than the printed one; only you are enabled to cross-question
the former, and so indirectly estimate the value of the information
imparted--for a tip; the latter you cannot.

Once I got into rare trouble over a local guide-book. Armed with the
precious production I had gone over a very ancient and interesting old
church, only to find the little work sadly at fault in many particulars.
Whereupon I shut it up and placed it carefully out of harm’s way in my
pocket, at which point the clerk appeared upon the scene. He was an aged
man and talkative, to a certain extent intelligent, and he managed to
interest me, so I pulled out the guide-book and began confidentially to
expatiate to him upon its numerous failings; luckless me, I raised a
very hornets’ nest! It turned out that the clerk was the author of the
work in question, and very proud he was of his production too. He had
lived in the place all his life, “man and boy,” he indignantly informed
me, and thought he ought to know more about the church than an utter
stranger. Why, the book had been the work of his life, and was it likely
that I, who confessed to having only come there the day before, should
know better about “his” church than he did? Which was no answer to my
comments, nor was the request, almost a demand, to let him have the
guide-book at the price I had given for it. He would not condescend to
discuss the points in dispute, though he kindly confessed I might know a
little about “_h_architecture and _h_antiquities, but you know,” he
loftily exclaimed, with the self-satisfied air of a man having special
knowledge, “you know the old saying ‘a little learning is a dangerous
thing,’” and with this parting shaft he walked away. Poor old man, and
if he only knew how sorry we felt that we had so innocently hurt his

[Sidenote: _AN AMUSING INCIDENT_]

feelings! This was a lesson to us never again to run down a work of any
kind before strangers, for one of them may be its author! An amusing
incident of a somewhat similar nature came under my notice at a
dinner-party. The host was a picture-lover and purchaser, not perhaps a
very discriminating one, but this is a matter aside; however, he bought
pictures and entertained artists, and his dining-room was hung round
with numerous paintings, some good, some indifferent. I believe the
personality of the artist often unconsciously influenced the host in his
purchases; if he liked the man he was biassed in favour of his work. At
one of his pleasant little parties, a lady innocently remarked, _sotto
voce_, to the gentleman who had taken her down to dinner, possibly more
to make conversation than anything else, “Do you see that picture over
there? I cannot imagine how Mr. Dash could have bought it; don’t you
think it a regular daub? I ask you as I understand you are an artist.”
It was an unfortunate speech, as the reply showed, for the gentleman
exclaimed, with an amused smile, be it confessed, “Madam, it’s bound to
be a daub, for I painted it!”




CHAPTER XIX

     “A precious piece of architecture”--Guests at an inn--A pleasant
     city--Unexpected kindness--A medieval lavatory--An honest
     lawyer!--The cost of obliging a stranger--Branston--A lost
     cyclist--In search of a husband!--Dunston Pillar--An architectural
     puzzle--A Lincolnshire spa--Exploring--An ancient chrismatory.


Lincoln Cathedral is surely, both within and without, one of the most
interesting and beautiful in England; its superb central tower is the
finest specimen of medieval building of its kind I have so far seen.
Were I inclined to be dogmatic, regardless of the possibilities of what
I have not beheld, I should proclaim it to be the most beautiful in the
world, perfect, as it appears to me to be, in proportion and decoration,
besides being so dignified. It is in just this rare, but delightful,
quality of dignity that the modern architect somehow so lamentably
fails; he may be grand by virtue of mass, he may be picturesque by
accident, but dignity he seldom achieves! The chapter house here, with
its bold flying buttresses outside and grand groined roof within, is a
notable bit of eye-pleasing architecture--but I declared I had no
intention of wearying my readers with a detailed description of this
cathedral, and already I find myself beginning to do so; and

[Sidenote: _RUSKIN ON LINCOLN_]

truly Lincoln Cathedral, above all others, should be seen, not
described. Perhaps it may not be out of place here to quote some of
Ruskin’s remarks on Lincoln and its cathedral, contained in a letter
written by the famous art critic to a local celebrity at the time of the
opening of the Lincoln School of Art. I quote this the more gladly as,
owing to the nature of the communication, it may not be generally known,
and all that Ruskin has to say should be worth preserving. Thus then he
wrote: “I have always held, and am prepared against all comers to
maintain, that the cathedral of Lincoln is out and out the most precious
piece of architecture in the British Islands, and, roughly speaking,
worth any two other cathedrals we have got. Secondly, that the town of
Lincoln is a lovely old English town, and I hope the mayor and
common-councilmen won’t let any of it (not so much as a house corner) be
pulled down to build an institution, or a market, or a penitentiary, or
a gunpowder and dynamite mill, or a college, or a gaol, or a barracks,
or any other modern luxury.” This is true Ruskinian; and fortified by
such an expression of such an authority, I feel after all inclined for
once to be dogmatic and declare that Lincoln, taking it as a whole, is
the loveliest cathedral in the land. Shielded behind Ruskin’s great
authority I venture this bold opinion; other cathedrals may be admired,
Lincoln can not only be admired, it may also be loved. It is not always
one finds grandeur thus combined with lovableness!

Within the cathedral we noticed several tweed-clad tourists amongst the
crowd “doing” the building; these were the first regulation tourists we
had come upon during our drive, which circumstance brought to our mind
the fact, possibly not realised by the many, that our cathedrals have
become more like vast museums than places of worship devoted to God. I
have attended a cathedral service on a week-day, and have made one of a
congregation of five--all told; which seems, to me, a great waste of
clerical and choirical energy. I afterwards asked the verger if they did
not generally have more people at that particular service, and he
replied meaningly, “When the weather is wet we sometimes have fewer.”
And I could not help wondering whether it might not be possible, on
certain occasions, when the elements were especially unpropitious, that
the vergers had the elaborate service and superb singing all to
themselves! Which is magnificent! When the service in question we
attended was over, the tourists, who had been waiting outside, trooped
in hurriedly and in numbers more than I could conveniently or perhaps
possibly count. I venture to say that in our cathedrals, during the
year, the people who come merely for sight-seeing vastly outnumber those
who come purely for worship.

Over the ancient fane, and its immediate surroundings, there seems to
brood the hush of centuries, a hush heightened rather than broken, when
we were there, by the cooing of innumerable pigeons that love to linger
about the hoary pile, and give a pleasant touch of life to the steadfast
masonry. Leaving the cathedral and the city on the hill

[Sidenote: _A SHARP CONTRAST_]

(“Above Hill” it is locally called to distinguish it from the city
“Below Hill”), we descended to the more modern part. This time we
appeared not to tread back the long centuries, but to walk suddenly out
of the picturesque past into the very prosaic present, as represented by
Lincoln’s busy High Street. There we found tram-cars running and
jingling along; eager crowds on the pavement; plate-glass-fronted shops,
quite “up to date”; and a large railway station asserted its
nineteenth-century ugliness,--moreover, right across this thronged
thoroughfare was a level railway crossing of the London main line, and
when the gates of this were shut, as they were from time to time, crowds
of pedestrians and a mass of vehicles collected on either side. I have
never seen before a level crossing of an important main line situated in
the centre of a busy city High Street. I was under the impression that
such things were only allowed in America. I was mistaken. An American
gentleman, to whom I spoke of the nuisance of a certain level “railroad”
crossing in Chicago, maintained that such a thing could be found in an
English city. I stoutly maintained the contrary; he would not be
convinced, neither would I. Lincoln proves me wrong. I apologise, in
case by any remote chance these lines may catch the eye of that Chicago
citizen, whose name I have forgotten.

Of most places there is generally one best view, a view that is
distinctly superior to all others; but of Lincoln this cannot be said.
The ancient city, with its towered cathedral standing sovereign on its
hill, looks well from almost everywhere; each view has its special
character and charm, and no one can be said to be better than another.
As we returned to our inn and looked up the High Street, the prospect
presented to us of the cathedral raised high over the red-roofed houses,
gabled walls, and gray bits of medieval masonry peeping out here and
there, with just a touch of mystery superadded by the blue film of smoke
that floated veil-like over the lower city, was most poetic; gold and
gray showed the sentinel towers as they stood in sunshine or shadow,
softly outlined against the darkening sky. Another most effective view
of Lincoln is from “the pool,” where the river widens out; here the
foreground is changed from houses to reflective water with sleepy
shipping thereon, shipping of the homely kind that navigates inland
waters. But from almost every point “below hill,” where the cathedral
can be seen as a whole--there is a picture such as the true artist
loves; not sensational at all, but simply beautiful and benevolent,
which is more to my mind. Lincoln as a picture charms, it does not
astonish; it is supremely effective without being in the least
theatrical or unreal; unlike the architectural scenery of Italy--if I
may be allowed the term--it does not suggest the painting of a
drop-scene, nor the background of an opera!

Lincoln “above hill” is not only one of the most pleasant cities in
England, it is also one of the most picturesque; it is beautiful close
at hand, it is beautiful beheld at a distance.

In the evening we had evidence of having come back to modern
civilisation as represented by a _table d’hôte_, a luxury that we had
missed, without regret, at the homely old-fashioned hostelries wherein
we had been so comfortably entertained hitherto on the way. It was a
simple _table d’hôte_, however, with more of the name than the reality
about it, nevertheless it was “served at separate tables” in true
British insular fashion. Though the tables were separate we had one
allotted to us with a stranger, and, according to the “custom of the
country,” commenced our meal in mutual silence, neither speaking a word
to the other, both being equally to blame in this respect. At an
American hotel, under similar circumstances, such unsociability would be
considered unmannered--and it would be impossible.

[Sidenote: _INN_ VERSUS _HOTEL_]

Accustomed so long to the friendliness of the old-fashioned inn, we
could not stand the freezing formality of the hotel--it depressed us. So
we endeavoured, with the usual commonplaces about the weather and so
forth, to break the oppressive silence, only to be answered in gruff
monosyllables. This was not promising; even though we might be
addressing a man of importance in fact, or solely in his own estimation,
surely it would do him no harm to make a show of civility to a stranger
that fate had brought him in close contact with at an inn. Truly, he
might be a lord or a commercial traveller, we could not tell, nor did it
matter to us; we merely wished to be sociable. By tact at last we
prevailed. There is no armour against tact and a pleasant manner that
costs nothing, and over an after-dinner cigar--one of the stranger’s
cigars, by the way, which he pressed upon us as being “so much better
than what you buy at hotels”--we actually became such friends that he
gave us his card, and, learning that we were on a driving tour, actually
added a most pressing invitation for us to come and stay with him at his
place in the country, “horses and all.” I mention this incident exactly
as it occurred. No moral follows, though I could get one in nicely; but
I refrain.

Not only is the view of Lincoln’s cathedral-crowned city very fine from
all around, a proper distance being granted, but the prospects from many
points within the elevated portion of the city are also exceedingly
lovely, and equally rewarding in their way, commanding, as they do, vast
stretches of greenful landscape, varied by spreading woods, and
enlivened by the silvery gleam of winding river, not to forget the
picturesque trail of white steam from the speeding trains that give a
wonderful feeling of life and movement to the view,--a view bounded to
the west and south by the faint blue, long, undulating lines of the
distant Wolds.

Open to all “the four winds,” or more, of heaven, Lincoln “above hill”
can never be “stuffy,” as many medieval cities are. When we were there
the weather was warm and oppressively close in the city “below hill,”
and a gentleman driving in from the country declared that it was “the
hottest day of the year,” still in the streets around the cathedral we
found a refreshing, if balmy, breeze. Some ancient towns have the
pleasing quality of picturesqueness, but the air in them during the
summer-time seems to stagnate. I prefer my picturesqueness, as at
Lincoln, air-flushed! Lincoln, too, is clean and sweet. Some ancient
cities, though undoubtedly romantic, unhappily possess neither of these
virtues. Dirt and evil smells, in my eyes, take a great deal away from
the glamour of the beautiful. I can never get enthusiastic over dirt.
Even age does not hallow dirt to me.

[Sidenote: _A QUAINT OLD HOME_]

As we resumed our journey, a short distance from our hotel we noticed a
quaint old stone-built house with a pleasant garden in front, a garden
divided from the highroad by an iron gateway. The old house looked such
a picture that we pulled up to admire it through the open iron-work,
which, whilst making a most protective fence, also permitted the
passer-by to behold the beauties it enclosed. Most Englishmen prefer the
greater privacy afforded by a high wall or a tall oak-board fence. I am
selfish enough to do so too, though, from the traveller’s point of view,
it is very refreshing to eye and mind to be able to get such
beauty-peeps beyond the dusty roads.

Observing a lady here plucking flowers in the pleasant garden, we
ventured boldly to open the gates, and, with our best bow, begged
permission to take a photograph of the picturesque old building. Our
request was readily granted, and with a smile. In fact, during the whole
of our tour it seemed to us that we had only to ask a favour to have it
granted with a smile--all of which was very pleasant. On the road it
verily seemed as though life were all sunshine, and everybody an
impersonation of good nature. I know people have gone a-driving across
country and found things otherwise; but the world is as we see and make
it! They may have frowned on it, and that is a fatal thing to do.

Having taken our photograph, and having expressed our thanks in our best
manner to the lady for her kindness, we were about to rejoin the
dog-cart, when the lady said, “You seem interested in old places. If you
care to step inside I think I can show you something you might like to
see.” We most gladly accepted the kind and wholly unexpected invitation;
it was what, just then, we desired above everything, but never ventured
to hope for. Again it was forcibly brought to our mind what a profitable
possession is a gracious bearing to the traveller.

Entering the house, let into the wall on one side of the hall, we had
pointed out to us a carved stone lavatory of medieval date. At first
glance this looked very much like some old altar, but running the whole
length of the top we observed a sort of trench; along this in times
past, we were told, water used to flow continuously. We could not help
fancying that probably this once belonged to a monastery (a similar kind
of lavatory may still be seen in the cloisters of Gloucester Cathedral).
On the opposite side of the hall we caught sight of a genuine old
grandfather’s clock with the following motto inscribed thereon, which
was fresh to us, and so I quote it:--

    Good Times
    Bad Times
    All Times
    Pass On.

[Sidenote: _EPITAPHS ON LAWYERS_]

Before leaving Lincoln I would call attention to a rather quaint epitaph
to be found in the churchyard of St. Mary’s-le-Wyford, which runs as
follows:--

    Here lies one, believe it if you can,
    Who though an attorney, was an honest man.

This reminds me of a frequently quoted epitaph of a similar nature that
a friend of mine assured me he copied many years ago in a Norfolk
churchyard when on a walking tour. Unfortunately he was not sure of the
name of the churchyard, being a very careless man as to details; but I
have his word that he did not get it out of a book, so I venture to give
it here:--

    Here lies an honest lawyer,
    And that’s STRANGE.

           *       *       *       *       *

    He never lied before.

The praise in these epitaphs is reversed in another, that sounds rather
like an ill-natured version of the preceding; and as I copied it out of
a local magazine I came across on the road, let us hope in charity it is
not true:--

    Here lies lawyer Dash;
    First he lied on one side,
    Then he lied on the other,
    Now he lies on his back.

Just out of Lincoln, when we had escaped the streets and had entered
upon a country road, we found a stiff hill before us. From the top of
this, looking back, was another fine and comprehensive view of the
cathedral and city--a view that almost deserved the much-abused term of
romantic. Ever mindful of the welfare of our horses, who gave us so
much pleasure, we dismounted to ease their load. Trudging up the hill we
overtook a good-natured-looking man laden with parcels. After exchanging
civilities upon the never-failing topic of the weather with him, we
incidentally remarked that it was rather a stiff pull up for a hot day.
“That it is,” responded the stranger, as he stopped to take breath. “We
call it Steep Hill. The worst of Lincolnshire is the hills.” We noticed
that he spoke quite in earnest, and there was the hill before us much in
evidence to give point to his complaint. His remark struck us as a
curious comment to those who declare that all Lincolnshire is “as flat
as a pancake.”

Then he asked us where we were going, and we told him. “Ah!” said he,
“you’ll pass through Branston, one of the prettiest villages in England,
and I say this without prejudice, being a Lincolnshire man.” Now, as
Branston is a Lincolnshire village, we did not exactly see the sequence,
but said nothing.

Presently, when we had reached the top of the hill and were about to
remount the dog-cart, the stranger exclaimed, “If you see my wife on the
way, she’s coming to meet me. Would you mind telling her I’m hurrying on
as fast as I can with the good things for dinner?” We replied that we
should be most happy to oblige him, but as we had not the pleasure of
knowing his wife, it would be rather difficult for us to do as he
wished. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “there will be no difficulty in the matter.
You can’t mistake her, she’s over fifteen stone!” So, as we proceeded,
we kept an outlook for any one answering that description, and in a
mile

[Sidenote: _AN INNOCENT BLUNDER_]

or so surely enough we met a very stout party walking along. We at once
pulled up and gave her the message. Not readily shall I forget the angry
flush that came over that good woman’s face. “I daresay,” shouted she
back, “you think it a grand thing to drive about and insult unprotected
ladies. A pretty way of amusing yourselves, and I suppose you think
yourself a gentleman--a gentleman, indeed? Well, you’re not one, so
there! I haven’t got a husband, thank God!...” and so forth in
superabundance. We hurriedly drove on to escape the torrent of abuse.
Manifestly we had made a mistake, and had addressed the wrong party! We
did not think it worth while to attempt an explanation, even could we
have got a word in, as she probably would not have believed us, and we
might have made matters worse. For the moment we wished we had not been
so obliging to a stranger. Shortly after this incident we met another
stout party on the way; she might have been fifteen stone, more or less,
but with our recent experience we did not venture to address her. We
might have made another mistake--with the consequences!

Branston we found to be all that it had been represented to us. A very
pretty village indeed it was, composed chiefly of stone-built cottages,
pleasantly weather-tinted, many having picturesque porches, and nearly
all possessing little flower gardens in front, gay with colour and sweet
of odour. The church, too, was aged and gray, and we noticed in the
walls some “long-and-short” work showing rude but lasting Saxon masonry
and proving that a church was there before the Conquest. A bit of
history told in stone. The hoary fane suggested an interesting interior,
but we found the doors to be carefully locked, and we felt in no humour
to go a-clerk-hunting; the day was too temptingly fine to waste any of
it in that tiresome sport. Just beyond the village we observed a
walled-in park, the gateway piers of which were surmounted by two very
grotesque figures.

Branston would have done credit to Devonshire, that county of
picturesque villages; it was of the kind that ladies love to term
“sweetly pretty.” Were Branston only in Devonshire, near some tourist
centres that there abound, I venture to say it would be much painted,
photographed, and written about in a laudatory manner, and possibly also
have its praises sung of by poets; but being only in Lincolnshire, out
of the traveller’s beat, its charms are reserved for the favoured few
whom chance may bring that way.

Then driving on through a lovely, lonely country, with fine views to our
left, over a well-wooded land that faded away into a mystery of low blue
hills, we came in time to four cross-roads, where we found a lady all
alone standing beside her tricycle looking hot, tired, and dusty. We saw
no guide-post here, just where one would have been most acceptably
useful, for we felt doubtful as to our way, our map not being so clear
as we could wish--a provoking feature about maps in general, and the one
we had in particular; so, doffing our cap most politely, we asked the
lady if she would kindly direct us. “Now how can I possibly direct
you,” replied she, “when I don’t know the way myself?” We apologised for
troubling her, explaining that we had no idea that she was in the same
predicament as ourselves, and to propitiate her we offered her the loan
of our useless map! We thought the act looked polite, and that perhaps
she could understand it better than we could. The offer was a strategic
blunder. We realised this as soon as it was made. “If you’ve got a map,”
exclaimed she, “why don’t you consult it?” Under the circumstances our
retort was not very clear. So we wisely said nothing, but quietly
consulted between ourselves which road we should take at a venture. “I
think straight ahead looks the most travelled and direct,” I said. “The
one to the left looks much the prettiest,” remarked my wife; “let us
take it, we are in no hurry to get anywhere, and we shall eventually
arrive somewhere--we always do. Put the stupid map away, and let us
drive along the pretty road and chance where it leads.” So the
picturesque prevailed. Perhaps I may here incidentally state that when
we set out from Lincoln, Woodhall Spa was our proposed destination for
the night.

[Sidenote: _A LOST HUSBAND!_]

As we were leaving the spot the cyclist manifestly relented towards us,
and exclaimed, perhaps as a sort of explanation of her brusqueness, and
perhaps in hope that we might be of service to her after all, “I’m out
on a tour with my husband and have lost him! He rode ahead of me to find
the way, and that was a good hour ago, and I’ve been waiting here for
him ever since. I’m tired and hungry--and he’s got the lunch with him!
If you meet a man on a tricycle with a gray tweed suit on, that’s my
husband; would you mind telling him I’m here, and ask him to hurry up?”
We felt a good deal amused at this request; first we had been asked only
that morning by a husband to give a message to his wife, who was unknown
to us, and got into rare trouble over the matter; now we were asked by a
wife to give a message to her husband, who was equally unknown to
us,--should we get into further trouble if we did, we wondered? However,
strangely enough, often on our tours have we performed the service of
messenger; sometimes we have taken letters and delivered them on the
way; once we conveyed the official correspondence from a lonely
lighthouse; and once we were sent after a clergyman to take the duties
of another clergyman at service. So we have been of use on the road!

Presently our road dipped down and led us to a picturesque village in a
hollow, whose name I now forget, but whose pleasantness lingers in my
memory. Driving on we noticed on the summit of the spreading uplands to
our right, a tall pillar standing alone, a very prominent object in the
view, though a long way off. We inquired of a man passing by what it
was. “That? oh, that’s Dunston Pillar,” he replied; “you can see it for
miles around in almost every direction. It used to be a lighthouse.”
“What, a lighthouse so far inland?” we exclaimed. “Yes, that’s just what
it was. It used to have a huge lantern on the top in the old days, which
was always kept lighted at night to guide belated travellers over
Lincoln Heath, a rare wild spot

[Sidenote: _AN INLAND LIGHTHOUSE_]

in times gone by, I’ve heard say not much better than a trackless waste.
So you see a lighthouse could be useful inland as well as by the sea.”
We saw! On referring again to my copy of _Patersons Roads_ I find the
following: “Dunston Pillar is a plain quadrangular stone shaft, of a
pyramidal shape, that rises to the height of about 100 feet. It was
erected when the roads were intricate, and the heath was an extensive
waste, and was then of great utility; but as the lands have since been
enclosed, and other improvements made, it can now only be considered as
a monument of the public spirit of the individual by whom it was
constructed.”

Then after a few more miles we reached Metheringham, an
out-of-the-world, forsaken-looking little town; so out-of-the-world that
I do not find it even mentioned in my _Paterson_, and why, or how, it
existed at all was a puzzle to us. In times past it was shut away from
the world more than now by the wild extensive Lincolnshire Heath on one
side, and a narrow, though long, stretch of roadless fenland on the
other, so was not very get-at-able.

In the centre of the sleepy old town, midway in the street, stand the
remains of its ancient market-cross: these consist of an upright shaft
rising from some worn and weathered steps; the place of the cross on the
top is now occupied by an ugly petroleum lamp. Even a stern Puritan
might have been satisfied with this arrangement, there is nothing in the
least superstitious about it, it is convenient but not beautiful. I only
wonder that, as the ruined cross stands so handily at the junction of
three roads, it has not been further utilised as a finger-post as well
as a lamp-post! I can only put down the omission to do this to an
oversight,--a wasted opportunity to add to the disfigurement of the
country-side!

We baited the horses at a little inn here, and, whilst they were
resting, took a stroll round the place to see if we could find anything
of interest, but failed. So we took a glance inside the church, and
there we discovered an astonishing specimen of architectural
incongruity. The Gothic arches, we observed, were supported by purely
classical pillars. How this came about we could not say positively, but
we put it down to our old enemy the restorer. We should imagine that it
was done at the time that the classical revival was rampant in England,
when Wren was in his glory, and only want of money saved many a Gothic
building from being altered to taste. Fashions in architecture come and
go as do fashions in dress.

Leaving Metheringham, a good-going road that took us through a very
pleasant country brought us quickly to the hard-featured village of
Martin, composed of brick-built cottages that came close up to the
roadway, without as much as a bit of garden in front to soften their
uncomeliness, as though land in this wild remote district were as
precious as in London, so that every possible inch of it needs must be
built on! In the street, as we passed down, we caught a sight of a brick
“steeple-house”--I use the term meaningly and of set purpose--quite in
keeping with its unprepossessing surroundings.

[Illustration: STIXWOLD FERRY.]

I may be wrong, but I do not think a place of worship could well be made
uglier--not even if corrugated iron were employed in the endeavour, and
much unsightliness can be wrought that way!

[Sidenote: _CAUGHT IN A STORM_]

At Martin we descended to a narrow stretch of fen, here almost treeless
and hedgeless, and wholly wanting the wild, weird beauty of the wider
Fenland with its magic of colour, and mystery of distance. Across this
monotonous flat, our road led us “as straight as an arrow” for three or
four miles, at a rough guess. Half-way over, where there was no possible
shelter, it suddenly began to rain, then it poured in torrents and the
wind began to blow--well, I am of opinion that you can get as wet on an
exposed fenland as anywhere! After all we were not sorry that the road
was so straight, we could the sooner get over it.

Leaving the dreary fens without regret, we reached the embanked and
slothful river Witham at a spot marked “Ferry” on our map, but where we
fortunately found an iron swing-bridge. It was an ugly affair, whereas a
ferry would most possibly have been picturesque, like that of Stixwold a
little higher up the same river, which I sketched next day, and is
herewith engraved, but it was raining hard, and to ferry across, though
doubtless a more romantic proceeding, would have meant more
discomfiture, so we were glad of the bridge, nor did we begrudge the
sixpence toll demanded for the use thereof. Another mile or so of good
road brought us to Woodhall Spa, where we arrived dripping and jolly, to
find a warm welcome at our hotel. I know not how it is, but when one
arrives by road one seems always ensured of a hearty welcome.

Woodhall Spa is about as unlike the usual run of fashionable
watering-places as one can well imagine. It is a charming health resort,
but it happily boasts of nothing to attract the purely pleasure-seeking
crowd, and on account of the absence of these attractions it appealed to
us. The country around also is equally unlike the popular conception of
Lincolnshire as it well could be; it is not tame, and it is not flat,
except to the west. Woodhall Spa is situated on a dry sandy soil where
fir trees flourish, and stretching away to the east of it are wild
moors, purple in season with heather, and aglow with golden gorse. It is
a land of health, apart from the virtues of its waters, supposed or
real. The air we found to be deliciously fragrant and bracing; I do not
think that there is a purer or a more exhilarating air to be found in
all England, or out of it for that matter. There are no large cities,
manufacturing or otherwise, within many a long mile of the district over
which the wind blows unimpeded, fresh, and invigorating from every
quarter, though sheltered to a certain extent from the east winds by the
Wolds beyond Horncastle. So unexpectedly pleased were we with the place;
with our comfortable hotel where we felt quite at home away from home;
so friendly and interesting did we find the company one and all
chance-gathered there (included amongst which was a distinguished
novelist; besides a poet not unknown to fame), that we elected to stay
at Woodhall Spa for a week though we had only at first intended to stop
there the night!

[Sidenote: _A LINCOLNSHIRE SPA_]

The spa, we learnt, was discovered by accident whilst boring for coal.
The water is strong in iodine, and tastes uncommonly like sea-water, it
is naturally, therefore, very disagreeable to drink; one or two invalids
we met, however, “swore by it.” Gout and rheumatism appear to be the
special diseases for which the waters are taken; though one party we met
declared the waters “tasted so horrible” that he infinitely preferred
the rheumatism! But perhaps he was only a slight sufferer. Nearly every
other invalid we spoke to declared that the waters had done them much
good; one gentleman who walked very well, and looked very well, informed
us that when he came there he was almost a cripple and could hardly walk
at all, “and now look at me,” exclaimed he, “I’m a walking testimony to
the efficacy of the waters.” Nobody, however, appeared to give the
wonderful vitalising air any credit for their cures or even aiding
thereto, yet I am by no means sure that this may not have had a great
deal to do with them; an air so dry and bracing, yet withal so soothing,
laden as it is with the soft and healing scents of the pine-woods. Good
too for over-wrought nerves, I should imagine. Simply to ramble in the
pine-woods, and over the moors at and about Woodhall, and there to
breathe the splendidly pure and light sweet air was a delight to me; it
was like inhaling nectar! When I go to a health resort, I go to breathe
the air, not to drink the waters!

Whilst lazing at Woodhall Spa--and there is a great virtue in doing
nothing successfully at times--our good-natured Horncastle friend found
us out, and kindly placed himself at our disposal for a whole day, which
he suggested we should employ in exploring the country round about; so
we arranged to drive with him where he would, and accordingly one
morning fared forth in his company for a “regular antiquarian day” as he
quaintly put it.

Leaving Woodhall we soon came to a bit of open moorland, with a tall
ruined tower standing solitary on the highest point thereof, a prominent
and picturesque feature in the prospect. This is a portion of a stately
hunting-box erected by the Lord-Treasurer Cromwell towards the end of
the fifteenth century, who also built the grand Tattershall Castle,
which we shall see in due course. This ruined hunting-box is locally
known as “the Tower on the Moor,” perhaps some day this may suggest a
title to a novelist. The interesting country around is, I believe,
virgin ground to the romancer, a ground that, it seems to me, would well
repay exploiting,--possibly, however, from a hint a famous novelist gave
me, it may by this time have been exploited!

Then by a pleasant lane we came to a lonely farmstead called High Rigge.
Here we pulled up for a few minutes to inspect a very fine and quite
perfect “celt” of smooth-polished greenstone that had lately been
ploughed up on one of the farm fields, and was carefully preserved in
the house, and I hope it will remain there and not be conveyed away to
enrich a private collection, as so many other relics of the past have
been, and thereby lost to the public. It would be a good thing if in
each county capital there were a local museum established where such
local finds could be preserved and inspected. I feel that each county
has a right to the possession of its own antiquarian treasures; such
museums too would add greatly to the pleasure and the interest of the
tourist and traveller. County people would doubtless take a pride in and
contribute to them, so that they would soon become centres of
attraction.

[Sidenote: _A RUINED ORATORY_]

From High Rigge we proceeded along a narrow country lane--with gates to
open here and there on the way--to a picturesque and interesting old
moated house known as Poolham Hall, now doing duty as a farmstead. The
house, with the wide moat around, makes a very pleasing picture, but all
the interest is external, within is nothing that calls for comment. The
moat encircles not only the farm buildings but an ample garden; indeed,
the amount of ground it encloses, we were told, was close upon two
acres, which shows that Poolham Hall was at one time a place of
considerable importance. In the garden stand the crumbling ruins of an
ancient oratory, roofless, and ivy-grown, and fast hastening to further
decay. Our friend asked where a certain tomb slab was that he remembered
seeing there some years back, but it had disappeared no one knew
whither; presumably it was the memorial of some important personage
buried in the oratory,--the master of the manor with small doubt;
however, it has apparently perished, so hard is it in this world for
even “the proud and mighty” to ensure their last resting-place from
oblivion or desecration. But better this surely than the fate of certain
great Egyptian kings, lordly despots in their day, whose mummified
bodies have been exposed to the vulgar gaze, and knocked down at auction
in London to the highest bidder! But what matters it? it will all be the
same in a million years hence more or less--when this planet with others
“may roll round the sun with the dust of a vanished race!” Here in the
moat we were told was found a very curious object in decorative
earthenware, which proved to be a chrismatory, presumed to have belonged
to the oratory; the vessel is provided with two wells for the oil and
salt as used in the Roman Catholic Baptismal rite, so our learned guide
informed us. This ancient and very curious chrismatory is now carefully
preserved in Langton church by Horncastle, and, with permission of the
rector, may be seen there by the curious.




CHAPTER XX

     A long discourse--The origin of a coat-of-arms--An English serf--A
     witch-stone--Lincolnshire folk-lore--A collar for lunatics--St.
     Mary’s thistle--A notable robbery--An architectural
     gem--Coningsby--Tattershall church and castle--Lowland and
     upland--“Beckingham-behind-the-Times”--Old Lincolnshire folk.


From Poolham Hall we drove on through a lovely country, remote from
railways, and pervaded by a peaceful, mellow, homelike look; bound for
the out-of-the-world hamlet of Wispington. On the way our antiquarian
friend began a long discourse; I write long advisedly because it lasted
for nearly, if not quite, four miles, and how much longer it would have
lasted I cannot say, for on arriving at a junction of roads, we broke
the thread of the discourse by inquiring which road we should take.
“Why, bless my soul,” exclaimed he, “we’ve driven two miles out of our
way, I quite forgot all about where we were going! This comes of our
very interesting conversation.” We thought “_our_ very interesting
conversation” was an excellent conceit, considering that we had been
merely patient listeners all the time: however, we jokingly remarked
that the talk was worth the added miles, and after all we arrived at
Wispington with the best of the day still before us; there we drove up
to the rectory and fortunately found the rector, an enthusiastic
antiquary like our companion, at home.

First, we were taken to see the church, a modern one decorated within
with carvings in Caen stone representing the animals and birds of the
Old Testament done by a former incumbent, and containing some tombstone
slabs and brasses preserved from the ancient church it had supplanted.
In the pavement of the vestry we had pointed out to us an ancient
incised slab (broken) to the memory of John Hetsete, a priest; this was
dated 1394. The slab is of much interest as showing the priest in
vestments holding a chalice in gloved hands, tightly buttoned. I cannot
remember ever having come upon a priest represented thus with gloved
hands. I am not sufficient of an antiquary to say whether this feature
is unique, it certainly is very uncommon.

A brass, now on the south wall of the church near the porch, is
inscribed to the memory of Robert Tyrwhitt; here on a shield is shown
the coat-of-arms of the family “three pewits d’or proper on a field
gules,” if that be the correct heraldic way of putting it. To this
coat-of-arms belongs a little history. We were informed that one of the
ancestors of the family after a gallant fight in battle with the Scots
(name and date unremembered) fell on the field seriously wounded. After
long search, he was found by his relations, hidden from view in a bed of
reeds, their attention having been attracted to the spot by three pewits
hovering over it, uttering plaintive cries the while. From this
circumstance, the family adopted three pewits as their coat-of-arms,
likewise taking the name of Tyrwhitt, the latter being supposed to
represent the cry of that bird. Thereupon--in the spirit of inquiry that
ever besets us--we wanted to know what the name of the family was before
that eventful occasion, but could obtain no information on the point.
One really should not be so exacting about pretty traditions; it is an
artistic sin for the commission of which I now, too late, repent.

[Sidenote: _ANTIQUARIAN TREASURES_]

Then we returned to the rectory, where the rector most kindly showed us
some of his valued antiquarian treasures. One of these consisted of an
old parchment document written in Latin, and very beautifully written
too, the lettering being as black and as clear as when first done long
changeful centuries ago, for the deed bears the date of 1282. The
document, which was presumably drafted in the Abbey of Bardney, and was
signed in the chapter house thereof, gives particulars of the sale of a
serf with his family. A circumstance that throws a startling sidelight
on the condition of England at the time. Curiously enough, in a further
document, the same serf appears as rector of a neighbouring parish, and
even purchases land there in 1285. The true inwardness of all this it
would be interesting to discover.

Then the rector brought out a “witch-stone” from his treasure store to
show us; this he found hanging on a cottage door and serving as a charm
against all evil. It is merely a small flint with a hole in the centre,
through which hole was strung a piece of cord to hang it up with. A
“witch-stone” hung up on, or over, the entrance door of a house is
supposed to protect the inhabitants from all harm; in the same way do
not some enlightened people nail a horse-shoe over their door “for good
luck”? To ensure this “good-luck” I understand you must find a
horse-shoe “accidentally on the road” without looking for it; to procure
a “witch-stone” you must in like manner come upon a stone (of any kind)
with a hole through the centre when you are not thinking about any such
thing.

Then our host related to us a curious story that had been told to him as
true history. According to this, a certain Lincolnshire miser died (I
withhold, name, date, and place), and was duly placed in his coffin
overnight; but then a strange thing happened, next morning the body had
disappeared and its place was taken up with stones; it being presumed
that the Devil had made off with his body and had placed the stones in
the coffin in exchange. But one would have imagined that it was the
man’s spirit not his body that his Satanic Majesty desired--but there I
am always over-critical and too exacting about details. By the way this
reminds me we were told, that the Lincolnshire folk never call the Devil
openly by that familiar designation, but speak of him in an undertone,
as either “Samuel,” “Old Lad,” or “Bargus.”

Then we gleaned some particulars of old Lincolnshire folk-lore. Here,
for example, is an infallible charm to get power over the Devil, I mean
“Samuel.”

[Sidenote: _CHARMS_]

On St. Mark’s Eve, precisely at twelve o’clock, hold two pewter platters
one over the other, take these to where bracken grows, hold the platters
under the plants for the seeds to drop in, then you will find that the
seeds will go right through the top platter and be caught in the one
below; upon this “Samuel” will appear riding on a pig and tell you
anything you want to know. Here is another charm. Kill a hedge-hog and
smear two thorn-sticks with his blood, place these in a hedge-bottom and
leave them there for fourteen days, if not moved meanwhile you will have
your wish. I give these two charms as a fair sample of others, and I
think they will well suffice!

Leaving Wispington, we came in about half a mile to a spot where four
roads meet, a burial-place for suicides in times past, and reputed to be
the centre of Lincolnshire. Then driving on we reached Horsington. In
the register of burials here is a notice of “Bridget Hall buried in her
own garden A.D. 16.” She lived at Hail Farm near by, our friend told us,
and directed in her will that she should be buried in her own garden,
and that her body should be laid north and south, as she considered it
“too Popish to be buried east and west in a churchyard!” Some years ago
the then occupier of that farm, we further learnt, on digging a drain in
the same garden came upon a skeleton lying north and south; presumably
that of Bridget Hall.

In the vestry of the church here, according to our informant, used to be
preserved in a box a strange relic of other days and ways, in the shape
of a brass collar by which poor unfortunate lunatics were chained to a
wall. Where the collar has gone no one seems to know or care; however,
it has disappeared, to the grief of antiquaries. “Though I cannot show
you the collar, I can still show you something curious and interesting,”
said our friend. Whereupon he went into the churchyard, and after some
searching plucked a thistle; this did not seem anything wonderful to us,
not being botanists, but he pointed out to us that it was peculiarly
marked with unusual gray lines all over. This, we were informed, is
called the “Holy Thistle,” or “Mary’s Thistle,” and it used to be grown
by the monks at Kirkstead Abbey a few miles away, and even until a few
years ago specimens thereof might have been found in the fields that now
surround the abbey ruins, but the farmers had rooted them all up. Arthur
Thistlewood of the Cato Street conspiracy was born here at Horsington,
we learnt, his real name being Burnet. The birthplace of still another
famous man had we come across!

Next we drove on to Halstead Hall, an ancient building set back some way
from the road, showing signs of its former importance, but now, like so
many other ancient halls, converted into a pleasant farmstead. The hall
was moated, but the moat has been drained dry; the house is famous
locally for a daring and a remarkable robbery committed there in
1829,--an event that still affords subject for the country folk to talk
and enlarge about, at least we heard a good deal about it. The house, we
understood,

[Sidenote: _AN “ANTIQUARIAN DAY”_]

was broken into by a band of robbers who tied up the men-servants in a
stable, first gagging them; and then locked up the family and the maids
in a store-room. After this they sat down in the hall and feasted; the
repast over, they leisurely collected all the silver plate and money
they could find, and quietly departed. Three of the band were afterwards
captured and hanged at Lincoln; one of them, a certain Timothy Brammer,
when on the scaffold, kicked off his shoes, as he declared, to falsify
the prophecy of his friends that “he would die in his shoes”; the doing
of this appeared to afford him a grim sort of satisfaction. Then by the
hamlet of Stixwold we returned to Woodhall Spa after a very interesting
“antiquarian day.”

We left Woodhall Spa regretfully, and upon mounting our dogcart to
resume our tour the genial landlord of the Royal Hotel and most of the
guests thereof, whose acquaintance we had made during our too short
stay, came to the door to bid us goodbye and a prosperous journey,--yet
we had only arrived there a few days before, perfect strangers in the
land! Truly we had paid our modest bill, notwithstanding which we left
in debt to the landlord for all his kindness to us, for which no charge
was made!

It was a cloudy day; the barometer was falling; the wind blew wild and
warm from the west. “You’ll have rain, and plenty of it,” prophesied one
of the party; “better stay on till to-morrow.” The temptation was great,
but if we dallied thus on the way at every pleasant spot we should
hardly get home before the winter, so we hardened our hearts and drove
away. The rain did not actually come down, but we noticed great banks of
threatening gray storm-clouds in serried ranks gathered on the low
horizon that foreboded ill, with an advance guard of vast detached
masses of aqueous vapours, wind-woven into fantastic forms. The
sky-scape at any rate was interesting. “It looks stormy,” exclaimed we,
to a man, in response to a polite “Good-morning” he bade us as we passed
him by. “It do look so,” replied he, “but we won’t get any wet worth
speaking of whilst this wind keeps up.” This was reassuring. We have
generally found country folk more reliable about the immediate future of
the weather than the falling or rising of the barometer, for local
conditions are often an important factor in the case and modify the
barometer’s forecast.

About a mile on our way we noticed the slight remains of the once famous
and wealthy Cistercian Abbey of Kirkstead. These consist simply of a
tall fragment of the transept and some walling, standing alone in the
midst of a wide grass field. Beyond this, in an adjoining meadow, we
espied a most beautiful little Early English chapel, perfectly pure in
style. This was enclosed in a neglected-looking graveyard, the rusty
gates of which were carefully locked, so that we were, perforce, obliged
to climb over them to inspect the building, which was also carefully
locked up, and, I regret to add, very fast going to irretrievable decay
for the want of a little timely repair. Why, I wonder, is such a rare
architectural gem as this allowed to go thus the way of all uncared-for
things? Is there not a “Society for the Preservation of Ancient
Buildings” of interest? Can it do nothing to preserve for us this relic
of former days?

[Sidenote: _A CHANTRY CHAPEL_]

At first sight it appears curious to find such a beautiful chapel in
such close proximity to a lordly abbey; manifestly, however, the
building was a chantry chapel, presumably for the benefit of the soul of
the second Lord of Tattershall, as his armoured effigy is still within
the desolated chapel, which was, doubtless, erected near to the abbey
for the convenience and certainty of priestly service.

As we drove on, shortly the tall tower of Tattershall Castle stood forth
ahead of us, showing darkly gray against the stormy sky, a striking
object in the level landscape, powerfully asserting itself on the near
horizon, some three or four miles by winding road away, though possibly
a good mile less “as the crow flies.” Soon we came to the little river
Bain, which we crossed on a rather creaky wooden bridge--the scenery
about the river here is very pretty and most paintable--and found
ourselves in Coningsby, a remote Lincolnshire village, whose name,
however, has become well known from its having provided Lord
Beaconsfield with the title for his famous novel. Coningsby possesses a
fine old church, with a somewhat disappointing interior. We noticed in
the porch here a large holy-water stoup, opening both internally and
externally; above the porch is a parvise chamber of the usual type.
Within the church, at the top of a pillar of the north aisle, is a
carving of a “scold” gagged, just one of those subjects that delighted
the humour of the medieval sculptor to portray.

Then another mile brought us to Tattershall, a small hamlet dominated
and dwarfed by its truly magnificent church (more like a cathedral than
a village fane, and of a size out of all proportion to the present,
possibly also the past, needs of the parish) and by its stately old
castle, towering high above all around. The church we found open, but
desolate within, it being given over to workmen for much-needed repairs;
the pavement in places, we noticed, was fouled by birds and wet with
recent rain that had come in through holes in the roof. It was a
pathetic sight to behold the grand old church in its faded magnificence,
bare, cold, and colourless, robbed long ago of its glorious
stained-glass windows, that once made it the pride of the whole
countryside. Strange it seems that these splendid windows, that had
miraculously escaped the Puritan crusade, should have been allowed to be
carted away only the last century (in 1757) to enrich another church!
Truly the Puritans were not the only spoilers. Here in the north
transept is preserved a series of exceedingly fine and very interesting,
though mutilated and damaged, brasses, removed from their rightful place
in the chancel pavement some years ago, and now huddled together in a
meaningless way. One of these is of Lord-Treasurer Cromwell, the builder
of Tattershall church and castle. Another very fine brass is that of a
provost with a richly-adorned cope. These brasses will well repay
careful study.

Of Tattershall, besides some insignificant and

[Sidenote: _TATTERSHALL TOWER_]

much-ruined outbuildings, only the stately tower keep remains. A truly
magnificent specimen of medieval brick building, rectangular in shape
and embattled on the top; it is flanked on each angle by four octagonal
smaller towers. These were formerly provided with high-pitched roofs, of
which only one is now extant, though I find from an old engraving, after
a drawing by T. Allom, in my possession, that there were three of these
roofs existing in 1830. Round the top of the building runs a projecting
gallery supported by very bold and massive stone machicolations; these
give a special character to the structure, and enhance its effective
picturesqueness.

For a castle keep the open Gothic windows seem strangely inconsistent.
From this fact one can hardly imagine that it was intended for serious
defence, yet, on the other hand, there are plain traces of the double
moats that once surrounded the place, and were presumably supplied by
water from the river Bain, which suggest a considerable amount of
precaution against attack. It may be that the moats formed part of a
former stronghold, and were simply retained because they were there. The
castle is built of small and very hard brick, said by tradition to have
been imported from Flanders. Externally the structure, except for its
time-toned look, sundry weather scars, and loss of its three
turret-tops, is much the same as when the ancient builders left it;
within it is a mere shell, floorless and roofless. In the walls are some
fine and well-preserved carved stone mantelpieces, some of which are
adorned with heraldic devices, and a representation of a full purse,
symbolic, we imagined, of the post of Lord-Treasurer held by the owner.
Over one fireplace we noticed an inscription in Norman-French, _Nay le
Droit_, which, rightly or wrongly, we translated into “Have I not the
right?”

We ascended to the top of the keep, and beyond to the top of one of the
flanking turrets, by a spiral staircase of innumerable steps that is
happily complete and is contained within one of the angle towers. This
staircase is provided with a handrail ingeniously recessed in the side
wall. A Lincolnshire antiquary we afterwards met assured me that this is
the earliest handrail to a staircase known. I merely repeat what I have
been told on apparently good authority, but I must confess I should have
imagined that this convenience was of more ancient origin; however, in
this matter my antiquarian knowledge does not carry me far enough. From
the topmost tower we had a truly magnificent panorama presented to us;
we looked down upon a wide green world, enlivened by the gray gleam of
winding water-ways, and encircled by a horizon darkly, intensely blue.
Our visions ranged over vast leagues of flat Fenland and wild wold. On
one hand we could just trace the distance-dwarfed outlines of Lincoln’s
lordly minster, on the other the faint form of Boston’s famous “stump.”

Before leaving Tattershall we made a sketch of the glorious old tower
that uprises so grandly from the level land around, which sketch is
engraved with this chapter, and will give a better idea of the

[Illustration: TATTERSHALL TOWER.]

stately pile than pages of printed description possibly could. It is a
truly splendid specimen of medieval brick-work, and until I saw it I
considered Layer Marney tower in Essex the finest example of brick
building of the kind in England, Hurstmonceaux Castle in Sussex coming
next; but now I have no hesitation whatever in giving the first place to
Tattershall tower.

[Sidenote: _IN FENLAND AGAIN_]

After finishing our sketch we once more resumed our pleasant pilgrimage,
and soon found ourselves traversing a wide and wild Fenland district,
over which the west wind blew fresh and strong. In a mile or so we
crossed the river Witham, here running painfully straight between its
embanked sides, more like a mighty dyke or canal than anything else, as
though it were not to be trusted to flow as it would; but this is, more
or less, the nature of nearly all the Fenland streams. Then we had a
long stretch of level road, good for cycling, which faithfully followed
for miles the side of a great “drain” (unhappy term), the road not being
more than four feet above the water. So we came to Billinghay, a sleepy,
remote, medieval-looking town, or large village, set well away from the
busy world in the heart of the Fens; it gave us a feeling that it might
be a hundred miles withdrawn from modern civilisation. A more
dreamy--dreary, if you will--spot it would be hard to find in crowded
England, and for this reason, though hardly to be termed picturesque, it
fascinated us. It had such a quaint, old-world air, suggestive of untold
rest--a peacefulness that is hardly of to-day.

Passing through another stretch of level Fenland, wide and free, we
reached the pretty village of Anwick, where, as we drove through, we
noticed a charming thatched cottage with big dormer windows in the roof,
and walls so ivy-grown that we could not tell whether they were of
stone, or flint, or brick,--a picture by the way. Here also we noticed
three curious round buildings, each with a conical roof of thatch, from
the apex of which rose a circular chimney. One of these did duty as a
blacksmith’s shop. After Anwick the country gradually lost its fen-like
character, hedges took the place of dykes as fences, the streams were no
longer embanked, the land became mildly undulating, and suddenly we
found ourselves back again in “sleepy Sleaford.” Here the gray-haired
waiter recognised and welcomed us. While chatting with him as he laid
our evening meal, he told us that he had come to the inn for a day, and
had stayed on there for fifty years!

We left Sleaford early the next morning bound for Beckingham, and beyond
to either Newark or Grantham. We went to Beckingham, as our antiquarian
friend we had met at Horncastle had told us that the old hall there was
full of the most beautiful and interesting art treasures, including some
priceless tapestry. “I will write to the rector of the village,” said he
in the kindness of his heart; “he is a friend of mine, and I will tell
him you are coming, and ask him to show you over the hall; you must not
miss it. And if you go home through Grantham, as I expect you will, you
really must see Staunton Hall near there; it is a house with a history.
I will give you a letter of introduction to the owner in case you may be
able to use it.” And this he did thereupon! Such was an example of the
many kindnesses _pressed_ upon us in the course of our tour. And to be a
little previous, I may here state that on arriving at Beckingham, the
genial rector there would not hear of our proceeding farther that day,
but good-naturedly insisted upon our staying with him for the night as
his guests, stabling our horses besides! Could kindness to utter
strangers much farther go? “You’re heartily welcome,” said the rector
smiling, and most hospitably did he entertain us. But, as I have already
remarked, I am a little previous.

[Sidenote: _LINCOLNSHIRE UPLANDS_]

Shortly after leaving Sleaford we entered upon a wild, open country,
hilly and sparsely populated, a country that reminded us forcibly of the
Cotswolds, and one as different as possible from the level lowlands we
had traversed the previous day. Once more it was brought to our minds
that Lincolnshire is a land of hills as well as of fens! We were upon a
glorious stretch of uplands that rose and fell around us in mighty
sweeps, chequered by great fields, and enlivened here and there by
comfortable-looking stone-built farmsteads, each with its rambling
colony of outbuildings and corn-ricks gathered around. These, with a
stray cottage or two for farm-labourers, saved the prospect from being
desolate. Here water seems as scarce as it is over-abundant in the Fens!
Indeed, we were afterwards told that sometimes in dry summers water in
the district is a rarer article than beer! This may be a slight
exaggeration, though one gentleman who had a house in the neighbourhood
assured us, that owing to his having to fetch all the water used in his
establishment, he reckoned that in the year water was a dearer commodity
to him than ale!

It was a grand drive we had over those bracing uplands, and we were
sorry when this portion of our stage came to an end, and we found
ourselves descending from them through a deep rocky cutting, overhung
with shady trees, into the very charming village of Leadenham, that
struck us as being clean, neat, and picturesque, a dreamy spot yet not
dull. The houses there are well built of stone, and most of them have
pleasant gardens, and all of them look cheerful. In the church we
noticed some rather curious stained glass, but nothing else of special
interest.

Beyond Leadenham we entered upon a rich, level, and purely agricultural
country, the most notable feature of which was the large size of the
fields. A short drive brought us to Brant Broughton, another very
charming village, with an old church remarkable for the beauty and
richness of its interior decorations. In the porch of this we were
attracted by some curious lettering that we could make nothing of,
except two dates 1630 and 1636. The church is glorious with gilt and
colour, stained glass, and carvings; it looks all very Catholic and
artistic, and should please those who like an ornate place of worship.
Not only is the church beautiful here, but the churchyard is well kept.
These two things should ever go together, but, alas! such is the rare
exception.

[Sidenote: _A DISAPPOINTMENT_]

Then we had an uneventful drive on to Beckingham, where, as already
related, we received a hearty welcome. But the hall which we had been
sent here to see was bare! This was a disappointment as we had been led
to expect so much of it. The house itself was plain and of no
architectural merit whatever, not worth crossing even a road to see. The
rector informed us that the property was left by the late squire to the
second son of his eldest son, failing him to the second son of his
second son; and there has never been a second son to either of them. The
last squire but one was, according to report, somewhat of a character,
for on winter evenings he used to go the round of the village at eight
o’clock and act the part of the Curfew, calling out to the cottagers as
he went by that it was time to go to bed and put the fires out! What the
cottagers thought of this proceeding we did not learn.

The church of Beckingham is of no special interest, though, like most
ancient churches, it possesses some curious features, and contains a
quaint old Elizabethan clock in the tower, still keeping, more or less,
faithful time. In 1810, the then rector, we were told, used to pay his
workmen’s wages on a Sunday morning, and the village shops were kept
open on that day. Amongst the Entry of Marriages here, the following is
perhaps worthy of a passing note:--“Under the Directory for the Public
Worship of God, 1645, Robert Parker and Anne Vicars were married on the
24th of May 1647, according to the Directory.” Amongst the Entry of
Burials we made a note of the following:--“Thomas Parker was buried in
his mother’s garden, April 15, 1681.” It seems to have been not a very
uncommon thing at the period for persons to be buried in gardens, burial
in a churchyard being considered by some as flavouring too much of
Popery! This was the second record of such an interment we had come upon
within a week. Beckingham, we learnt, was five miles from a railway; it
looked a thousand to us, though when we came to think of it we had to
confess that we had never been so far from a railway in our lives,
except when on the mid-Atlantic! It used to be called
“Beckingham-behind-the-Times,” the rector said. Well, it does not look
as though it were much ahead of them now! It is a primitive place,
without the virtue of being picturesque.

Next morning our kind host with thoughtful intent took us out to call on
some of his oldest parishioners, the youngest of whom was eighty-two, in
case we might gather something of interest from their conversation. One
old man we visited was eighty-nine, and his wife was eighty-five. His
father and grandfather had lived and died in Beckingham, he told us, and
though close upon ninety he still managed to do all the work on a garden
of over an acre. He had only travelled in a train once, and that was to
London; he had only smoked once, and then he smoked five ounces of
tobacco right

[Sidenote: _CHATS WITH ANCIENT FOLK_]

off, and his tongue was sore for weeks afterwards; he could see no
pleasure in smoking. When he was a young man he used generally to walk
to Lincoln and back on Sundays, a distance of twenty-nine miles, besides
doing his regular work as a farm-labourer on week-days, for which he was
paid the exorbitant wage of from 7s. to 9s. a week, out of which he
actually managed to pay rent for a cottage and brought up a family of
twelve children. “My hours of toil were from six o’clock in the morning
till six o’clock in the evening, and I had to start from my home at five
and got back at seven.” We thought the expression “my hours of toil”
much to the point; but he did not appear to consider that his life had
been a particularly hard one, indeed he remarked that he could not
understand the present generation--“they can neither work nor walk,” and
he praised God that he could still work!

Then we visited a Mrs. Sarah Watson, who said she was born in 1805. When
she was a girl she saw a man hanging on a gibbet at Harby in
Lincolnshire, which stood on the spot where he committed a murder. She
used to go out to the gibbet with friends to watch which of the
murderer’s bones would fall off next! “Ah! them were the good old days,”
she exclaimed, “life were exciting then. Now I cannot walk; but I’m fond
of reading. I’ve read the Bible through from the first page to the last,
all save the hard names, and I’ve begun it afresh but have not got
through it again yet. I’ve read _Pilgrims Progress_; that _is_ an
interesting book, I did enjoy it.” There was something very pathetic in
our talks with these poor and patient old folk, and I could moralise
here were I inclined that way, but I prefer to leave my readers to do
this for themselves. I give the text and spare the sermon!




CHAPTER XXI

     A cross-country road--A famous hill--Another medieval inn--“The
     Drunken Sermon”--Bottesford--Staunton Hall--Old family deeds--A
     chained library--Woolsthorpe manor-house--A great inventor!--Melton
     Mowbray--Oakham--A quaint old manorial custom--Rockingham
     Castle--Kirby.


From “Beckingham-behind-the-Times” we drove on to the old historic town
of Grantham, a town that still retains much of its ancient
picturesqueness though it is certainly not slothful, but rather
pleasantly progressive. Our road led us through a very pretty country,
but the way was rather hard to find as the turnings were many, the
guide-posts few, and some of the few illegible. As we drove on, the
distance showed clearly defined and darkly blue, we could plainly see
the spire of Claypole church on the horizon, rising sharply into the air
over wood and field; now there is a local saying at Beckingham that
“when you cannot see Claypole church spire, it is sure to be fine,” if
the converse of this meant rain we ought to have had it, for besides the
barometer was low and falling, and the sky cloudy, so the road being
good, though narrow, we sped along with what haste we could.

At Fenton, the first hamlet we came to, we pulled up a few minutes in
spite of the threatening weather, to inspect a picturesque and
interesting old manor-house, a little off the wayside, a house somewhat
modernised, and apparently turned into a farmstead. Just above one of
the windows of this was a stone inscribed “1507--R. L.,” and in front of
it separated by a little garden, which erst doubtless formed a
courtyard, stood a gray old Jacobean gateway, with a coat-of-arms boldly
engraved on the top. Just beyond this time-toned manor-house was the
ancient church, worn and gray; the hoary church and old-time home with
its quaint gateway made a very effective picture; a genuine bit of old
England. Manifestly the country about here is not one given to change,
it all bears a mellow, peaceful look that comes of contented abiding,
and is so soothing to the eye, wearied with the ugliness of modern
towns, and the architectural eyesores of the modern builder.

Then proceeding in due course, we passed through Stubton, a little
hamlet in no special way noteworthy, with its churchyard by the
roadside, a goodly portion of the latter being taken up with a
yew-enclosed tomb. We needs must carry our dignity down to the
grave--but how of the humble dead who lie beneath their grass-grown
graves un-monumented?

    Forget not Earth, thy disappointed Dead!
    Forget not Earth, thy disinherited!
    Forget not the forgotten! keep a strain
    Of divine sorrow in sweet undertone
    For all the dead who lived and died in vain!
    Imperial Future when in countless train
    The generations lead thee to thy throne,
    Forget not the forgotten and unknown!

[Sidenote: _LINCOLNSHIRE HILLS_]

In another mile or two we reached the charming village of Brandon
situated in a wooded valley, backed by a long line of church-dotted
hills; a line of hills stretching far away to the right and left that
form the backbone of Lincolnshire, and are known locally by the curious
title of “the Cliff.” From this pleasant rural spot an excellent going
road brought us to another pretty village with a grand and very
interesting-looking church, in the quiet God’s acre of which was a
quaint sun-dial raised on the top of a tall stone pillar; the church
doors were carefully locked, so we did not see inside. As at Fenton, so
here, close by the church, stands an old manor-hall, a pleasant bit of
past-century building.

Soon after this we struck upon the old Great North Road and began to
mount the long and stiff Gonerby Hill, famous in the old coaching days
as the worst “pitch” on the road between London and Edinburgh. It is a
striking fact that the worst hill on the old main high-road, close upon
four hundred miles in length, should be in Lincolnshire, a county
supposed to be so flat! It may be remembered that Scott, who frequently
travelled this road, makes mention of this hill in _The Heart of
Midlothian_. Jeanie Deans, on leaving the Saracen’s Head at Newark,
bound for Grantham, was assured, “It was all plain road, except a high
mountain called Gunnerby Hill about three miles from Grantham, which was
her stage for the night. ‘I’m glad to hear there’s a hill,’ said Jeanie,
‘for baith my sight and my very feet are weary o’ sic tracts o’ level
ground--it looks a’ the way between this and York as if a’ the land had
been trenched and levelled, whilk is very wearisome to my Scotch
een....’ ‘As for the matter of that, young woman,’ said mine host, ‘an
you be so fond o’ hill, I carena an thou couldst carry Gunnerby away
with thee in thy lap, for it’s a murder to post-horses.’”

From the top of Gonerby Hill or Gunnerby (according to the old maps) we
had a long run down into Grantham, where we sought “shelter and a
night’s lodging” beneath the sign of the “Angel,” one of the few
medieval hostelries left to us; at the moment I can only call to memory
six others in England, but there may be more.

A most interesting old building is the Angel at Grantham, with its
weather-worn and time-stained front of stone facing the street and
giving it quite a special character; nor do you come upon so aged and
historic an hostelry every day. At the end of the drip mouldings on
either side of the central archway that gives access to the building,
are sculptured heads representing those of Edward III. and Philippa his
Queen; at least so we were told, we had no other means of knowing whom
the heads were intended for. One has to take many things on faith in
this world! Over the archway projects a fine oriel window ornamented
with carvings, the window being supported on a corbel composed of an
angel with outspread wings. It was in this very building--according to
our landlord who had naturally studied the history of his old
house--that King John held his Court on 23rd February 1213 (a fairly
long time to date back to); and Richard III. signed the death-warrant of
the Duke of Buckingham on 19th October 1483, in a room still called the
“King’s Chamber.” We found that we had this very chamber allotted to us
as our bedroom--a room that surely should be haunted, if ever a room
were; but we slept soundly there, and if any ghost did appear he did not
disturb us; anyway we were far too sleepy, after our long drive in the
open air, to trouble about such trifles as ghosts! I verily believe if
one had appeared that we should simply have turned lazily over, and have
told him angrily not to bother us! A driving tour begets iron nerves and
dreamless slumbers.

[Sidenote: _A STORIED HOSTELRY_]

Here in this ancient and storied hostelry we latter-day travellers were
made exceedingly comfortable; we were even provided with the wholly
unexpected, and, be it confessed, undesired, luxury of the electric
light--which indeed appeared far too anachronistic for its surroundings.
So comfortable were we made, that, remembering our letter of
introduction, and finding that Staunton Hall was some nine miles away,
we determined to drive there and back on the morrow, and stay on at the
“Angel” over another day, though we required no excuse to do so.

During the evening, whilst making sundry small purchases at a shop, we
overheard one of a party of purchasers ask another if he had heard the
drunken sermon? The question sounded to us like a bit of local scandal,
and though we much dislike all scandal, still in this case curiosity got
the better of our dislikes, and when his customers had gone, we
ventured to ask the shopman what the scandal was. “Bless you, sir,”
replied he, “there’s no scandal at all; we’re far too good in Grantham
to have any scandals.” We were delighted to hear this, and thereupon
thought what a delightful place Grantham must be to live in! It was
explained to us that, according to an ancient will of a certain Michael
Solomon, the tenant of the “Angel” has to pay a sum of two guineas every
year to the vicar, in return for which the vicar has to preach a sermon
against drunkenness, which he does annually on the first Sunday after
the mayor’s election. And this sermon is known locally as the “drunken
sermon.” I only devoutly wish that all scandals were so readily
explained away, for then the world would be a much pleasanter place to
live in!

Early next morning we set off for Staunton Hall. Soon after getting free
of the town we had a fine, though distant, view of Belvoir Castle,
rising prominently and picturesquely out of the woods to our left, with
the misty hills of Leicestershire forming an effective background.
Passing on through a pleasant stretch of country we reached the pretty
village of Bottesford, where we forded a little river, hence doubtless
the name. Here we observed the steps and base of the shaft of a
market-cross. The church chanced to be open, so we took a glance inside
and found there a number of grand monuments to the Lords of Belvoir. A
portion of the inscription on the magnificent tomb of the sixth Earl of
Rutland we copied as showing the strange faith in sorcery held at the
period even in the highest ranks of society, and this is it: “In 1608,
he married ye Lady Cecilia Hungerford by whom he had two sonnes both
[=w]ch died in their infancy by wicked practise and sorcerye.”
Monumental inscriptions are oftentimes curious reading, and frequently
throw interesting sidelights on the superstitions and manners of bygone
days.

[Sidenote: _THE KEY OF STAUNTON TOWER_]

There was nothing further noteworthy on our way till we reached Staunton
Hall, an ancient home set away in a tree-shaded park, and here our
letter of introduction ensured us a welcome; not only did the lady of
the house very kindly offer to show us over it herself, but also most
courteously granted us the highly appreciated privilege of inspecting
several of the old family documents, some of which were of exceeding
interest. Amongst the treasures preserved here is the gold key of the
Staunton tower and the Royal apartments at Belvoir Castle. During the
Parliamentary wars, it appears Colonel Staunton, of Staunton Hall, held
and defended Belvoir Castle for the King. As a recognition for this act,
the head of the Staunton family are privileged to go to Belvoir Castle
when any member of the Royal family is about to visit there, and to
present to such member the gold key which nominally gives access to the
Royal apartments.

We noticed, as we drove up, over the entrance doorway the date 1573,
inscribed below a coat-of-arms, but this, we were told, only relates to
the doorway which was a later addition to the building; the year of the
erection of the hall being actually a little earlier, namely in 1554,
as shown cut in a stone let into one of the chimney stacks. The great
and original heavy oak door is still _in situ_; indented and in places
pierced with shots and bullets that were fired at it during the siege of
the house by the Parliamentary forces; during which attack the house was
bravely defended by the wife of Colonel Staunton, who, just before it
was captured, made her escape with her children. On the door over these
records of that struggle is cut the date thereof, 1642. The ancient and
historic door is preserved by an inner one of oak attached thereto.

Amongst the very interesting family documents is a deed in old Latin,
temp. 1323, relating to the bearing of the Cross in the Holy Land on
behalf of William de Staunton, to which is attached a translation; this
latter we copied, and it runs as follows--

     To all people about to see or hear this letter, I, William de
     Staunton give greeting. Know ye that in consideration of high
     esteem and for the safety of my own soul, and those of my ancestors
     and successors have made free Hugo Travers, the son of Simon of
     Alurington in which place he assumed the Cross for me, and have
     quit claimed for myself and my heirs for ever, himself and his
     possessions from all terrene service and exaction, and have yielded
     him with all his possessions or property to the Lord and the Church
     of St. Mary of Staunton, whereby I desire and grant that he and his
     property may remain free for ever under the protection of the Lord
     and St. Mary, and the restored church of Staunton. Witness hereof,
     Witto, priest of Kidvington, Radulpho de St. Paul. Walter de Hou.

And many others, the date following. Which document is food for thought,
and seems to show how easily, according to the Church of those days,
the

[Sidenote: _HISTORIC DEEDS_]

soul of a rich man, his ancestors, and descendants could be saved by
vicarious deed.

Then we were shown a signed authority from Charles I. for “Colonell”
Staunton to raise a regiment of 1200 foot in the king’s service. The
next document taken in due chronological order ran thus:--


                              CHARLES R.

     Our express will and pleasure therefor is that you presently uppon
     the receipt of this our orders draw all your Regiment out of our
     Garrison of Newark and with them to march into Tuxford and go
     forward under the order of Lt. Generall Villiers. This you are
     punctually to obey, and for your so doing this shall be your
     warrant.

     Given at our Court at Welbeck this 16 of August 1645. To our trusty
     and welbeloved
                      Colonell Staunton at Newark
                       By his Majesty’s Commands
                           E. W. W. Wather.


For the time, the spelling of this is exceptionally correct. Then we
were shown another document signed by Oliver Cromwell, that explains
itself sufficiently.

     June 1646. A Licence to Mrs. Ann Staunton, or whom she should
     appoint, to look into and oversee the repairs of the Manor House of
     Staunton in the County of Nottingham, late belonging to Colonel
     Staunton, a Delinquent to the Parliament Service, and there to
     remain during such time as the said house shall be repairing.

                           Oliver Cromwell.



There were other interesting documents we inspected, but alas! space
forbids my giving any more here.

On our way back to Grantham we pulled up at the little village of
Sedgebrook, attracted by the fine and interesting-looking church there,
and also in search of any quaint epitaph. We found the rector,
manifestly an ardent antiquary, in the church, which was being lovingly
repaired under his skilled supervision. He did not know of any
noteworthy epitaph in the churchyard, but he could give us one he copied
at Shipley in Derbyshire, if we cared to have it. We did, and here it
is:--

    God saw good as I lopped off wood
    I fell from the top of a tree,
    I met with a check that broke my neck
    And so God lopped off me.

Sedgebrook church is very interesting, I could easily enlarge upon it to
the extent of a whole chapter did the exigencies of space permit. Here
is the Markham chapel in which the “Upright Judge,” Chief Justice
Markham of the King’s Bench, 1462, is buried, or is supposed to be; his
tomb has been destroyed. There is a hazy local tradition that only his
effigy is buried here and not his body; also the same tradition has it
that the judge, on being deprived of his office by the king, took
sanctuary in the church and was fed there by his daughter, whose incised
slab representing her head resting on a pillow now finds a place on the
wall of the chapel. “Now,” said the rector, “some clever people come
here and when they see that, they at once take the pillow for a
head-dress, and one gentleman even went so far as to call attention to
it in a publication as a unique example of a head-dress of the period!”
Of course the slab was intended to be laid flat on the floor, when the
effect of the pillow, a little out of drawing by the way, would have
been more natural. After this, we hastened back again to our comfortable
medieval hostelry at Grantham, well satisfied with our day’s wanderings.

[Sidenote: _A CHAINED LIBRARY_]

Early next morning, before starting on the road, we paid a visit to the
grand parish church of the town, whose splendid tower is one of the
finest in the kingdom, besides being one of the earliest, ranking,
according to some architectural authorities, second only to that of
Salisbury Cathedral. But what interested us most in this glorious old
church, with its broad aisles and general feeling of spaciousness, was
its library of chained books of rare medieval works; this is contained
in a large parvise chamber over the south porch. The books are curiously
placed on their shelves with their backs to the wall, their titles being
written on their front pages. We noticed that many of the works suffered
from iron-mould owing to the chain fastenings and damp.

We left Grantham in a mist that inclined to rain; what the country we
passed through at first was like I cannot say, but half seen through the
veil of mist, the hills around loomed vague and vast, poetically
mysterious; even the near fields and hedgerows were only dimly
discernible, and the trees by the roadside dripped with moisture that
was almost as wetting as an honest rain, but it in no way damped our
spirits. We enjoyed the mist, it left so much to our imagination, and it
allowed us to picture the scenery much as we wished it to be; thus the
possibly commonplace assumed, in our eyes, the romantic. So, driving on
through a land half real, half the creation of our fancy, we reached
Great Ponton, a tiny hamlet with an ancient church, solemn with the
duskiness of centuries. Close to the hoary fane stood, pathetic in
neglect, a quaint, old-time, stone-built home with “stepped gables,”
whose weather-worn aged-toned walls were broken by mullioned window’s
rounded at the top, and without transoms. A home of the past, full of
character. Without, the stone gateway pillars still stand, gray and
desolate, that used to give access to the mansion; the space between
them now being barred merely by broken hurdles, and in the fore-court
grasses and nettles flourished exceedingly. The building somehow
involuntarily called to our mind Hood’s famous poem of “The Haunted
House.”

Then passing through a pleasant country of woods, we suddenly found
ourselves in the old-fashioned village of Colsterworth, where at the
“White Lion” we baited our horses and refreshed ourselves; after which
we set out on foot across the fields to find Woolsthorpe Manor-house
where Sir Isaac Newton was born, which we made out from our map to be
about a mile and a half distant, though it took us a good two miles to
get there all through asking our way; for we got directed to the “Sir
Isaac Newton” public-house instead of to his birthplace! At last,
however, we found the modest old manor-house, a small but pleasant
enough looking home, whose stone walls are ivy-draped, but, though
substantially built, the place has no particular

[Sidenote: _SIR ISAAC NEWTON’S BIRTHPLACE_]

architectural merit; in front of it is an orchard, just as in the days
of old, and it was in this orchard that Newton saw the historic apple
fall. We should imagine that the house and surroundings generally,
except possibly the ugly cart-shed at the back, are but little altered
since the famous philosopher’s time. We at once set to work to make a
sketch of the old house, reproduced herewith; in doing this we observed,
just over the doorway, where one often finds a coat-of-arms, a stone
carved with the representation of two “cross-bones” in a shield, and
below this gruesome device we read the following inscription:--

                          In this Manor House
                         Sir Isaac Newton Knt
                        Was born 25th December
                              A.D. 1642.

After finishing our sketch, we ventured to knock at the front door and
politely asked if it would be possible for a perfect stranger just to
take a glance at the room in which Newton was born. A pleasant-faced
woman opened it, presumably the lady of the house, and with a smile she
said, “Certainly, if it would interest you to see it.” We replied, with
many thanks for the unexpected courtesy, that it would very much
interest us to see it, whereupon we were taken upstairs to a comfortable
old-fashioned chamber, in no way remarkable for size or quaintness,
unless a fireplace in the corner can be considered the latter. The
position of this room is shown by the upper front mullioned window to
the left of the house in the picture, the window to the side being
built up. In a corner of this chamber is a small marble tablet let into
the wall and inscribed:--

    Sir Isaac Newton (Son of Isaac Newton
    Lord of the Manor of Woolsthorpe) was born
    in this room December 25th 1642.

    Nature and Nature’s laws lay hid in night
    God said, “Let Newton be” and all was light.
                                  POPE.

Then we were taken to see Newton’s tiny study, situated upstairs and on
the same floor. Here is hung a drawing of the very tree from which
Newton saw the apple fall. It is a curious-looking old gnarled tree, and
I have taken the artist’s license of introducing it in the foreground of
my sketch, in place of a very ordinary tree of the same kind that really
was growing on that spot. I seldom take such liberties, but in this
exceptional case I thought a likeness of the famous old tree might be of
interest, and, accompanied by an explanation, allowable. Though the
original tree is dead, a graft, we were informed, was made from it,
which is growing now in the orchard in the very spot that the old one
grew; strangely enough it greatly resembles its historic predecessor.

Then we made our way back to Colsterworth, crossing the river Witham by
a foot-bridge, the road traversing it by a ford. The bottom of the
stream, we noticed, was paved with flat stones, so that the carts in
driving through should not sink in the mud, an arrangement that I do not
remember to have noted elsewhere. Before returning to our

[Illustration: WOOLSTHORPE MANOR-HOUSE: THE BIRTHPLACE OF SIR ISAAC
NEWTON.]

[Sidenote: _A HAPPY CONCEIT_]

hotel we took a look at the church, as it was on our road, and the door
happened to be open. We descended into the building down two or three
steps, from which we concluded, rightly as we discovered, that it was
dedicated to John the Baptist. As the late Rev. R. S. Hawker, the famous
Cornish vicar, says, “Every church dedicated to John the Baptizer is
thus arranged. We go down into them, as those about to be baptized of
John went down into the water.” The church is well worth inspection; but
what chiefly interested us in it was a stone sun-dial let into the north
wall with the following inscription below:--“Newton, aged nine years,
cut with his penknife this dial.” Above, one of the corbels is carved
with the likeness of Sir Isaac Newton, a delightful conceit that pleased
us greatly. An old body we spoke to in the church amused us not a little
by exclaiming, “Yes, he were a wonderful man Sir Isaac to invent
gravitation!” “Ah!” we replied, “however did the world get on before he
invented it?” But our satire fell harmless. “Oh, very well,” she
responded; “it b’aint no good of to nobody as far as I can see.” And
with this we took our departure, and returned to our inn.

After a hurried glance at our map before starting, we decided to drive
across country to Melton Mowbray, and to stop there the night. On
inquiring about the way we were informed that we could not miss it, as
it was well “sign-posted,” a fresh expression to us. Just as we started
the rain came down. Lincolnshire had greeted our coming with sunny
smiles, and now she bade us good-bye in tears,--that was the poetical
way of looking at the unpromising state of the weather! Of the road on
to Melton Mowbray I cannot say much, as it rained the whole way
persistently. In spite of this the country struck us as being distinctly
pretty in parts, especially at one spot where we dipped down through
woods to a ford over a shallow but fairly wide river, across which was a
very Welsh-like bridge for pedestrians. On a fine day this would have
been an ideal spot to make a sketch or to take a photograph of. Even
seen through the rain its picturesqueness impressed itself so on us that
during the evening we made a very fair memory-sketch of the quiet nook.

It rained all that night at Melton Mowbray, at least the ostler said it
did, and we took his word for it, as we were fast asleep. Anyhow it was
raining in the morning when we awoke; and though we waited till eleven
o’clock before resuming our journey, the weather had not the grace to
improve, so we set forth in the rain bound for Oakham on our way to
Uppingham. As we drove on the weather improved. Now and again the sun
struggled out for a time, and the cloud-scapes above and the strong play
of light and shade on the hilly landscape below were very effective. The
country was wild and beautiful, with a beauty of hill and dale, of wood,
and hedgerowed lane that called Devonshire to remembrance. The only
place we passed through on the way of any importance was the straggling
and very pretty village of Langham. Shortly after this we found
ourselves in Oakham,

[Sidenote: _A CURIOUS TOLL_]

which struck us as a clean, neat little town with thatched and
slab-roofed houses in its streets, and a charming old butter-cross set
away in a quiet corner, with a sun-dial on the top and the ancient
stocks below. Near to the butter-cross stands the banqueting-hall of
Oakham Castle, all that now remains of that stronghold. Within, the
walls of this hall are hung round with a number of gigantic horse-shoes,
some gilt, and nearly all with the names of titled people painted on
them. On inquiring the wherefore of this, we were told that the custom
of the Lord of the Manor anciently exerted to show his authority, and
still maintained, is to claim a horse-shoe from every peer who passes
through the town for the first time. Instead of real horse-shoes, in
every instance but one, large imitation shoes to hang up have been
purposely made. The one real horse-shoe is that of Lord Willoughby
d’Eresby, dated 1840. The oldest shoe is that of Queen Elizabeth.
Certainly the custom is a curious one, and it would be interesting to
trace its origin.

From Oakham we had a delightful drive of six miles on to Uppingham. The
weather had cleared up, and the sun was shining quite cheerfully again.
There was a freshness and a fragrance in the air that was very grateful
to us. Our road was level at first, then we had a stiffish climb up to
Manton-on-the-Hill, a forsaken-looking village of stone-built houses set
on a height and grouped around an ancient church that looked so
pathetically old. Most of the houses there were gray with age and
picturesque besides, with porches, mullioned windows, and moulded
gables, one of the latter being surmounted by a quaint sun-dial. We just
took a glance at the interior of the crumbling church which was
interesting; but an old woman we discovered there sweeping the floors
interested us even more, for humanity, _when characteristic_, is ever
better worth study than mere inert matter. She concluded her long life’s
story by saying that she was seventy-two, and cleaned the church and
blew the organ, as it was a little help towards living, her husband
being paralysed, “and he’s only seventy-seven.” Just as though it were a
reproach to him his being helpless at that early age!

A “give and take” road with more takes than gives, it seemed to us,
brought us to Uppingham, where we found a comfortable hotel. Here, while
the daylight lasted, we took a stroll round the town, and admired the
new school buildings in the course of erection. Then we went into one or
two shops to make a few purchases. At the first of these we remarked to
the shopman, “You’ve got a fine school here.” His reply rather took us
aback. “Yes, we have,” said he. “It’s all school here now and no town;
we’re as school-ridden as Spain is priest-ridden,” and he spoke like a
man who was sorely vexed in his soul about something; but he would not
condescend to any explanations, so we left him and went to a stationer’s
shop for some trifle. Here we saw a photograph of a fine ruined mansion
that attracted us from its manifest former importance, so we inquired
where it was. “Oh, that’s Kirby,” we were told; “it’s near Rockingham,
and some seven miles from here. It’s well worth seeing. It was once
nearly purchased for a residence for George III. It’s a grand old place
all falling to ruin, as you see.” Upon this we purchased the photograph,
and determined to visit Kirby the next day, as we found we could take it
on our way by a slight detour.

[Sidenote: _A CHARMING VILLAGE_]

It was a grand drive over a wild open country to Rockingham, a charming
village nestled at the foot of a wooded hill, which was crowned by a
modernised feudal castle known locally as “the Windsor Castle of the
Midlands.” Here, with our usual good-fortune, we were permitted to see
the gardens and the interior of the castle. We entered the courtyard
through a great arched gateway, guarded on either hand by two massive
round towers built in the Edwardian age, and as strong and substantial
now as then. First we strolled round the old garden enclosed by a high
stone wall. Alongside of this wall runs a broad terrace, from which
elevated position looking down we had a glorious and space-expressing
prospect over the wild Welland valley, bounded to the north by the
wilderness of Lincolnshire hills showing green, gray, and faintly blue.

The interior of the castle is interesting. This, with the treasures
stored therein, would need pages of description to do them justice. On
the roofbeam of the entrance-hall we noticed the following motto
painted:--“This Howse Shall Be Preserved And Never Will Decaye Wheare
The Almightie God Is Honored And Served Daye By Daye, 1579.” Here is an
iron treasure-chest that once belonged to King John. In the old
Elizabethan gallery are a number of interesting paintings by Van Dyke,
Sir Joshua Reynolds, and other famous artists. Here also was pointed out
to us a portrait supposed by some authorities to represent Queen
Elizabeth when an infant, but it is of doubtful authenticity. Want of
space unfortunately prevents my giving further particulars of this old
historic pile set in its romantic park, rich in wood and charmingly
varied by rugged hill and deep dale.

We had a stiff climb out of Rockingham when we reached high ground, and
turning to our left gradually descended to a well-wooded valley. In the
heart of this we espied the ruined mansion of Kirby, situated low in a
wild and desolate-looking park, and some half mile or so from the public
road. Driving under the time-grayed gateway here, we had presented to us
a vision of picturesque and pathetic decay. The vast mass of ruins
attests the former grandeur of the place. When we were there cows were
feeding in its grass-grown courtyards, portions of the structure were
roofless, and the mullioned windows glazeless, birds wandered in and out
of its deserted chambers, and weeds found lodgment in the crevices of
its weather-beaten walls. It was a scene of desolation. But what struck
us amongst the decay of roof, floor, panel, and window was the enduring
quality of the stone-work. The masonry appeared little injured by mere
age or weathering, it being damaged chiefly by the tumbling down of
roofs and floors; the fine carvings on the stones being almost as sharp
as when first chiselled centuries now ago. It would be interesting to
learn where this splendid stone was quarried; it is manifestly
magnificent building material. Architects might do worse than study this
question. There is no doubt as to the designer of this stately mansion,
for John Thorpe’s plans of it are preserved in the Soane Museum,
endorsed in his handwriting, “Kirby, whereof I layd the first stone,
1570.”

[Sidenote: _A NORTHAMPTONSHIRE PROVERB_]

We were now in Northamptonshire that, according to the proverb, has

    More spires and more squires
    More bells and more wells

than any other county.




CHAPTER XXII

     A well-preserved relic--An old English home--Authorities
     differ--Rooms on the top of a church tower--A medieval-looking
     town--A Saxon tower--Bedford--Bunyan’s birthplace--Luton--The end
     of the journey.


Leaving Kirby we soon reached the very pretty village of Deene, on
passing through which we noticed a picturesque creeper-covered little
hostel with the sign of “The Sea-horse,” though it was so far inland.
Then our road led us round Deene Park, shady with branching beeches and
leafy elms, just giving us a glance of the interesting old Tudor mansion
peeping through the woods, and so by the side of a little lake to
another picturesque village called Great Weldon, some of the houses
wherein are quaintly built and worthy of study. A stone district seems
to breed good architecture, even in cottages. After this we had an open
stretch of country on to Geddington where we found, to our delight, a
Queen Eleanor Cross, little damaged, either by the hand of man, or time.
It was a pleasure to come unexpectedly upon this well-preserved relic of
the vanished long ago.

Shortly after this our road brought us to Boughton Park, a fine demesne
with a large and rather ugly mansion set therein. What interested

[Sidenote: _A GRAND HOBBY_]

us here was the arrangement of wide avenues of elms, extending from the
house in every direction, rising and falling with the varying
undulations of the ground. The effect, though formal, is fine in the
sense that it gives a feeling of great expanse by leading the eye far
away into the distant country on all sides. It is magnificent, but it is
too apparently artificial to be commended; a formal garden is all very
well, and very charming; a garden is confessedly Nature tamed, to a
greater or less extent, but one does not desire a whole country-side
tamed! These stately avenues, we learnt afterwards, were planted by the
second Duke of Montague, from which grand hobby he justly earned the
title of “the planter Duke.” Soon after this we entered the busy and
thriving town of Kettering, where we fortunately discovered a very
comfortable hotel with a most obliging landlord.

We resumed our journey early the next morning; we left our hotel and
worthy landlord with regret, and the busy town with pleasure; and glad
we were to get into the quiet country again. We had a rather hilly road
at first, with charming woodland prospects opening out ever and again;
in about two miles we reached the small hamlet of Barton Seagrave,--here
we noticed more avenues of elms radiating from the ancient church,
possibly part of the scheme of “the planter Duke.” Then driving on we
came to the large village of Burton Latimer, where to the left of our
road we espied a lovely old English home of many gables, great chimney
stacks and mullioned windows, with a gray-green slabstone roof broken
above by dormers. On one chimney was a sun-dial, and on one gable we
noticed a very quaint weather-vane, whilst in the forecourt stood an
ancient pigeon-cote. A charming home of past days, that with its
old-fashioned gardens looked as though it had stepped out of some
picture, an artist’s ideal realised. You do not frequently set your eyes
upon such a delightful actuality in this commonplace age!

The next village on our way was Finedon, a straggling place; here by the
roadside we noticed a monument gray with years, and without any
inscription that we could find. So we asked a man the meaning of it; he
replied that it was erected by a gentleman whose horse had fallen dead
on the spot after being driven hard by his master to catch the
mail-coach. Another man who was listening to the conversation declared
positively that our informant was all wrong, and that it was put up as a
memorial of somebody who was drowned at sea. So hard is it to arrive at
facts in this world! Then the first man got in a rage with the second
man and called him bad names, and said he knew “nought about it,” and as
the argument was already heated and promised to be prolonged, we
politely thanked both parties for their trustworthy information and
departed. As we drove away each man shouted after us that he was right;
and we shouted back pleasantly we were quite sure of it!

The next point of interest on our way was the long-named little town of
Irthlingborough, with its ancient market-cross and fine old church. The

[Sidenote: _AN ARCHITECTURAL PUZZLE_]

church tower, detached from the main building, is surmounted by a tall
and quaint octagonal structure that gives it a strangely
unecclesiastical appearance, and a very original one too. Well,
originality that escapes eccentricity is pleasing. Our church towers and
spires, however architecturally good in themselves, too often lack
individuality, in that they resemble one another over much; even a
beautiful form by too frequent repetition may become monotonous. For a
wonder we found the clerk in the church; he told us that the tower had
been rebuilt, as we could see, but it was, externally, an exact
reproduction of the old one. The interior was not quite the same, as
there was a stone staircase up the tower, whilst in the old one you had
to get up by ladders. The octagonal structure at the top, now mere
enclosed space, used to consist, we were told, of three stories, with a
room in each provided with a fireplace, but what the use of these rooms
was, the clerk did not know. The fireplaces showed that they were
intended to be lived in, yet dwelling-rooms right on the top of a tall
church tower seemed singular; at any rate the chambers must have had a
plentiful supply of fresh air! We wondered if they could have been
intended for a priest’s home. But whatever their purpose, dwelling rooms
in such a position are surely unique.

A little farther on we crossed the silvery winding river Nene by a gray
and ancient bridge, and had before us, set pleasantly on the top of a
hill the picturesque old town of Higham Ferrers looking quite romantic
with its old-time irregular-roofed houses, and grand church spire,
strongly silhouetted against the bright blue sky. Higham Ferrers struck
us as a most interesting little town, with its fine old fane, around
which are clustered gray crumbling buildings of the medieval age, in the
shape of a bede-house, a school, a vicarage, and a Decorated stone
cross; all in the Gothic style, with many traceried windows, and
supporting buttresses to the walls. We owe this effective group of
buildings to the good Archbishop Chicheley, who was born in the town,
and when he became great and famous raised them in honour of his
birthplace. He also erected a college here, of which only a great
archway remains, and some decayed walls with broken mullioned windows;
this faces the main street of the town, and when we were there simply
enclosed a dirty farmyard. Within, the church is most interesting, and
possesses some exceedingly fine old brasses, many of the fifteenth
century; amongst the number a brass to a priest is noteworthy, as are
also the royal arms of England sculptured in relief, on the side panels
of a very beautiful altar-tomb placed under a stone canopy, suggesting
the possibility of its having been prepared for royalty, though probably
never used; the place where the recumbent effigy should be is now taken
up by a brass that manifestly was intended for the floor. There are also
some quaint medieval tiles before the altar, ornamented with curiously
figured animals in yellow on a red ground. Altogether the interior of
this splendid and ancient church affords a mine of good things for the
antiquary or ecclesiologist.

[Sidenote: _SAXON MASONRY_]

Leaving Higham Ferrers we had a pleasant drive, mostly downhill, to the
hamlet of Bletsoe, where we came in sight again of the slow-gliding
Ouse, the valley of which we followed on to Bedford. Some short way
beyond Bletsoe we passed through Clapham, unlike its ugly London
namesake, a pretty rural village by the river-side. Here we noticed the
striking-looking Saxon tower of the church, more like a castle keep than
an ecclesiastical structure. It forms quite a feature in the landscape,
and asserts itself by its peculiarity.

On arriving at Bedford it began to rain, and it was raining again in the
morning; but about mid-day the steady downpour changed to intermittent
showers. So, early in the afternoon, we started off for a twenty-mile
drive on to Luton, which we did in one stage. In a little over a mile we
found ourselves passing through a very pretty village, and on inquiring
the name thereof discovered it to be Elstow, the birthplace of John
Bunyan, a spot that does not seem to have changed much to the eye since
that event, for, if the expression be allowed, it looks still “genuinely
Old English.”

After Elstow we had a fine open country before us, bounded ahead by a
low range of wooded hills, hills that showed softly blue under the
shadow of a passing cloud, a golden green in the transient gleams of
sunshine, and were sometimes lost altogether or half hidden by the mist
of a trailing shower. Then driving on in due course we reached the hills
and had a stiff climb up them, followed by a long and glorious run down
through fragrant-scented pine-woods with open spaces here and there
given over to a little forest of waving bracken, green, red, and yellow,
in all the loveliness of their autumn tints. At the foot of the descent
we found a charming little hamlet set in woods, past which a clear
stream purled peacefully; crossing this stream we had another climb
succeeded by a level winding elm-bound road, with an uneventful
landscape on either hand, of flat fields stretching far away to a misty
horizon. Now the rounded chalk hills loomed up finely in front of us,
the clouds stooping to their low summits, so that it was hard to tell
where the land ended and the sky began; and in the fast-fading light a
sense of mystery and the majesty of space pervaded the prospect. Our
road eventually led us along the sides of these hills and into the
gathering gloom, then we dropped down into the cheerful lamp-lighted
streets of busy Luton. From Luton we drove through picturesque Harpenden
to historic St. Albans, with its much-restored abbey, and from St.
Albans by Elstree and Edgeware we made our way back to London again. And
so ended our most enjoyable wanderings on the pleasant old roads. Ours
was purely a pleasure jaunt. We set forth on it determined, come what
would, to enjoy ourselves, and we succeeded! Now, kind reader, the time
has come when I must, perforce, bid you farewell.

    Of all the words the English tongue can tell
    The hardest one to utter is “Farewell.”
    But the fond hope that we may meet again
    Relieves that word of more than half its pain.




APPENDIX

ITINERARY OF JOURNEY


                                       Day’s       Total
                                      Stages     Distance
                                     in Miles.   in Miles.
London to Stevenage                    31           31
Stevenage to St. Neots                 25           56
St. Neots to Huntingdon           11 }
Huntingdon to St. Ives and back   10 } 21           77
Huntingdon to Stamford }
  _through Stilton_      }             25½      102½
Stamford to Spalding            }
  _over the Fens and by Crowland_ }    25½      128
Spalding to Bourn                      12          140
Bourn to Sleaford                      18          158
Sleaford to Boston           }
  _by Swineshead and Frampton_ }       25          183
Boston to Wainfleet  }
  _across the Marshes_ }               18          201
Wainfleet to Horncastle         }
  _by Spilsby and over the Wolds_ }    20          221
Round about Tennyson-land              20          241
Horncastle to Scrivelsby and back  5 }
Horncastle to Lincoln             21 } 26          267
Lincoln to Woodhall Spa }
  _over Lincoln Heath_    }            18          285
Round about Woodhall Spa               18          303
Woodhall Spa to Sleaford }
  _by Tattershall Castle_  }           18          321
Sleaford to Beckingham }
  _over “the Cliff”_     }             15          336
Beckingham to Grantham                 15          351
Grantham to Staunton Hall }
  and back by Bottesford  }            18          369
Grantham to Melton Mowbray }
  _by Colsterworth_          }         21          390
Melton Mowbray to Uppingham }
  _through Oakham_            }        16          406
Uppingham to Kettering    }
  _by Rockingham and Kirby_}           22          428
Kettering to Bedford     }
  _through Higham Ferrers_ }           25          453
Bedford to Luton                       20          473
Luton to London      }
  _through St. Albans_ }               28          501

[Illustration:

ROUTE BETWEEN
LONDON & LINCOLNSHIRE.
]

[Illustration:

OVER FEN AND WOLD
IN LINCOLNSHIRE.
]




INDEX


Abbeys, Cathedrals, and Churches--
  Ashby Puerorum, 312-315
  Bag Enderby, 329-334
  Bardney Abbey, 397
  Barton Seagrave, 437
  Beckingham, 411, 412
  Benington, 259, 260
  Biggleswade, 59
  Boston, 251
  Bottesford, 420, 421
  Bourn, 202
  Brampton, 82
  Branston, 383, 384
  Buckden, 76-79
  Clapham, 441
  Claypole, 415
  Colsterworth, 428, 429
  Coningsby, 403
  Cowbit, 181
  Crowland Abbey, 151, 163, 164, 172-176
  Falkingham, 215-220
  Fenton, 416
  Frampton, 243, 244
  Grantham, 425
  Great Gidding, 245, 246
  Great Ponton, 426
  Harrington, 338-341
  Heckington, 235
  Higham Ferrers, 440
  Horncastle, 346-348
  Horsington, 399, 400
  Irthlingborough, 438, 439
  Kirkstead Abbey, 402
  Kirkstead Chapel, 402
  Leadenham, 410, 411
  Lincoln Minster, 367, 368, 372-374
  Mavis Enderby, 303, 304
  Metheringham, 388
  Osbournby, 223-225
  St. Leonard’s Priory, 152, 153
  Scrivelsby, 360
  Silk Willoughby, 228-230
  Sleaford, 233, 234
  Somersby, 320-324
  Spalding, 189-193
  Spilsby, 297-299
  Swineshead, 239-241
  Tattershall, 404
  Welwyn, 28, 29
  Wispington, 395-397
  Wrangle, 264, 265

Alconbury Hill, 103, 104

Anwick, 408

Aslackby, 207, 208

Astwick, 55-58


Bag Enderby, 329-334

Baldock, 47-52

Barholm, 155

Barnet, 13-17, 21

“Barnett Wells,” 17, 18

Barton Seagrave, 437

Beckingham, 408, 409, 411-415

Bedford, 441

Benington, 259, 260

Biggleswade, 58-60

Birthplaces of Notable People--
  Bunyan, John, 441
  Cromwell, Oliver, 97, 98
  Franklin, Sir John, 296
  Ingelow, Jean, 254
  Newton, Sir Isaac, 426-428
  Pepys, Samuel, 80-82
  Tennyson, Lord, 316-320
  Thistlewood, Arthur, 400
  Young, Dr., 29

Bletsoe, 441

Boston, 246-255, 301

Bottesford, 420, 421

Boughton Park, 436, 437

Bourn, 198-204

Brampton, 80, 82

Brandon, 417

Branston, 383, 384

Brant Broughton, 410

Buckden, 75

Burleigh Park, 131-133, 135

Burton Latimer, 437


Castles and Towers--
  Belvoir, 420
  Hussey Tower, 255
  Kyme Tower, 258
  Oakham, 431
  Rockingham, 433, 434
  Stamford, 149, 150
  Tattershall, 392, 407
  “Tower on the Moor,” Woodhall, 392

Clapham, 441

Colsterworth, 426, 428, 429

Coningsby, 403

Cowbit, 181

Crowland, 163-176


Deene, 436

Deeping St. James, 156, 157

Dunston Pillar, 386, 387


Eaton Socon, 69

Edgeware, 442

Elstow, 441

Elstree, 442


Falkingham, 213-221

Fenton, 415

Finedon, 438

Frampton, 243, 244


Geddington, 436

Girtford, 65

Godmanchester, 94, 95

Gonerby Hill, 417, 418

Grantham, 83, 418-420, 425

Graveley, 38, 39

Great Ponton, 426

Great Weldon, 436


Hadley, 22, 23

Halstead Hall, 400, 401

Halton Holgate, 275, 278-280, 285

Harpenden, 442

Harrington Hall, 334-339

Hatfield, 23-27

Heckington, 234, 235

Hemingford Grey, 92-94

Higham Ferrers, 439-441

High Rigge, 392, 393

Hinchinbrook, 83

Holbeck, 310

Horncastle, 307, 308, 344-355, 362

Horsington, 399

Huntingdon, 83-86, 95-100


Irby, 284

Irthlingborough, 438, 439


Kenulph’s Stone, 159

Kettering, 437

Kirby, 434-436

Knight’s Mill, 92


Langham, 430

Langworth, 367

Leadenham, 410

Lincoln, 368-381

Lincoln Heath, 386, 387

Little Stukeley, 101, 102

Luton, 441, 442


Market Deeping, 155, 156

Martin, 388, 389

Mavis Enderby, 303-305

Melton Mowbray, 429, 430

Metheringham, 387, 388


Norman Cross, 119


Oakham, 430, 431

Osbournby, 223-225


Peakirk, 158

Poolham Hall, 393-395


Rivers--
  Ivel, 60
  Nene, 119, 129-131, 439
  Ouse, 68, 69, 74, 86, 87, 91-95, 441
  Steeping, 274
  Welland, 150, 159, 161, 183
  Witham, 389, 407, 428

Rockingham, 433, 434


St. Albans, 442

St. Guthlak’s Cross, 159

St. Ives, 87-91

St. Neots, 69-73

Scrivelsby Court, 356-360

Silk Willoughby, 226-230

Sleaford, 231-234, 408

Somersby, 309, 315-329

Somersby Grange, 324-328

Somersby Rectory, 316-320

South Ormsby, 341

Spalding, 183-194

Spilsby, 293-300

Stamford, 83, 119, 133-151

Staunton Hall, 409, 420-424

Stevenage, 31-36

Stilton, 39, 107-117

Stixwold, 401

Stixwold Ferry, 389

Stubton, 416

Swineshead, 236-241


Tallington, 155

Tattershall, 404

Tempsford, 66-68

Tetford, 341

Treckingham, 222


Uffington, 154

Uppingham, 430-433


Wainfleet, 271-275

Walcot, 222

Wansford, 129-131

Water Newton, 119-128

Welwyn, 27-30

Whetstone, 12

Winceby Hill, 307, 347

Wispington, 395-399

Wolds, the, 300-307, 310-342, 362

Woodhall Spa, 389-392, 401

Woolsthorpe Manor-House, 426-428

Wothorpe, 139, 140

Wragby, 363-367

Wrangle, 261-265


                                THE END


           _Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_