CHAPTER XV

While the stars came out and the night windBrought up the streamMurmurs and scents of the infinite sea.

We had so far been disappointed in our search

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 theStandardthat 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 wereallowed 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 awakewith 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!

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 theStandardof 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 articlein 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 thatthe story was not dismissed by the editor of theStandardin 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-roomwhere 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.

“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-roomwhere 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.

A GHOST MYSTERY

Now it happened, whilst we were at Boston, that we purchased a copy of theStandardof 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 theStandardthat 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 wetoo 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 herseeingthe 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.”

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.

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

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.

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 theStandard, 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!

GHOST-HUNTING

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.”

Reachingthe 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. Whowere 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.

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 workand 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.”

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 andtrembled 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.”

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 hauntedroom, 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 disappointmentamounting 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!”

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 FranklinDiscoverer of the North West PassageBorn at SpilsbyApril 1786.Died in the Arctic RegionsJune 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

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 anold 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

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 shownotherwise. 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

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 plainThat 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 wheelThe 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.

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