CHAPTER XI

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 hisopinion, 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.

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 newIs felt and thought of death—the problem strangeWith 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 deepDim 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 pewLieth 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 tosee 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!

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

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 markThe 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.

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 givingFull 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

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

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 reachterra firmathey 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

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 remainingElizabethan 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

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 hisSurvey 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.

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.”

FromBourn 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 generalforms 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.

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 mayhave 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 viewof life, not even grumbling with cause. I wish I knew the miller’s secret of happiness!

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, forthe 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 uponstill 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.

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,” exclaimedthe 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

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-tintedcountry 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.

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 ofPatersonas supplying post-horses. I well remember my grandfather expatiating upon the pleasures of a driving tour in hisyoung 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:

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 themorning “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 WelcomedIn 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

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