CHAPTER VIII

This Loft ErectedJanuary 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 inEngland” and has been so called for generations. In my copy ofDrunken 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 roundlyDown the Current: People cry’dSleeping down the stream I hy’d:Where away, quoth they,from Greenland?No; from Wansforth brigs in England.

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 romanceloses 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 gazeOn that cottage growing nearer,Where they twain will spend their days.. . . . .Thus her heart rejoices greatly,Till a gateway she discernsWith armorial bearings stately,And beneath the gate she turns;Sees a mansion more majesticThan all those she saw before:Many a gallant gay domesticBows 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.”

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, butto 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

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 hisFaerie Queenethus alludes to the town:—

Stamford, though now homely hid,Then shone in learning more than ever didCambridge 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 bottlesof 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.

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:—“PeterLewis 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!

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.

Earlyin 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 ruinsare 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 powerAnd magic in the ruin’d battlement,For which the palace of the present hourMust 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

“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 alarge, 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

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 fundataFuit a Guilielmo BrowneAnno Don̄i 1495. Anno Regio HenriciVII Decimo

This structure new contains twelve habitationsWhich shall remain for future generationsFor 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 towneAlas now dead his name was William Browne.Be it an house of prayer and to diuineDuties devoted else not called mine.

Ten old men and two old women are boarded and cared for here, we learnt; the women having to actas 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

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 eventuallydriven 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.”

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 frombrasen-hus, orhws, 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 theirparts 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 ofThat Prodigy in NatureDaniel Lambertwho was possessed ofAn exalted and convivial mindAnd in personal greatnessHad no CompetitorHe measured three feet one inch round the legNine feet four inches round the bodyAnd WeighedFifty-two stone Eleven pounds!He departed this lifeOn the 21st of June1803Aged 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

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 lastbit 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

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 finebuilding 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!

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 moodIn which the burden of the mystery,In which the heavy and the weary weightOf 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

A QUIET COUNTRY ROAD.

“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 thingSince the CreationA new steeple builtIn 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 andcrumbling 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.

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. “Youmustsee 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 inbeing lost at times—otherwise why do people go into mazes.

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