CHAPTER XVIII

AN ANCIENT BRASS

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

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

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

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

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

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

A DESERTED HALL

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

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

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

ECCENTRICITIES IN CARVING

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

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

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

A VAIN SEARCH

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

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

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

COINCIDENCES

Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into the ground,Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet upon the hound.Cross’d! for once he sail’d the sea to crush the Moslem in his pride;Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in which he died.

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

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

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

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

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

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

PICTURESQUE LINCOLNSHIRE

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

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

A MAN OF MANY ACCOMPLISHMENTS

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

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

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

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

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

A WORTHY KNIGHT

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

Here Lyeth ye worthyAnd Honorable Kt. Sr IngramHopton who paid his debtTo Nature and Duty to his KingAnd Country in the AttemptOf seising ye Arch-RebelIn the Bloody skirmish nearWinceby: Octr ye 6th.A.D.1643.

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

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

IN STRANGE QUARTERS

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

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

PARDONABLE IGNORANCE

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

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

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

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

A HORSE-DEALING STORY

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

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

THE PICTURESQUE CARED FOR

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

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

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

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

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

A “LION-GUARDED GATE”

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

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

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

Here we met, our latest meeting—Amy—sixty years ago—. . . . . .Just above the gateway tower.

and,

From that casement where the trailer mantles all the mouldering bricks—. . . . . .While I shelter’d in this archway from a day of driving showers—Peept the winsome face of Edith.

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

SCRIVELSBY: THE HOME OF THE CHAMPIONS OF ENGLAND.

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

SCRIVELSBY COURT

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

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

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

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

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