A LINCOLNSHIRE SPA
The spa, we learnt, was discovered by accident whilst boring for coal. The water is strong in iodine, and tastes uncommonly like sea-water, it is naturally, therefore, very disagreeable to drink; one or two invalids we met, however, “swore by it.” Gout and rheumatism appear to be the special diseases for which the waters are taken; though one party we met declared the waters “tasted so horrible” that he infinitely preferred the rheumatism! But perhaps he was only a slight sufferer. Nearly every other invalid we spoke to declared that the waters had done them much good; one gentleman who walked very well, and looked very well, informed us that when he came there he was almost a cripple and could hardly walk at all, “and now look at me,” exclaimed he, “I’m a walking testimony to the efficacy of the waters.” Nobody, however, appeared to give the wonderful vitalising air any credit for their cures or even aiding thereto, yet I am by no means sure that this may not have had a great deal to do with them; an air so dry and bracing, yet withal so soothing, laden as it is with the soft and healing scents of the pine-woods. Good too for over-wrought nerves, I should imagine. Simply to ramble in the pine-woods, and over the moors at and about Woodhall, and there to breathe the splendidly pure and light sweet air was a delight to me; it was like inhaling nectar! When I go to a health resort, I go to breathe the air, not to drink the waters!
Whilst lazing at Woodhall Spa—and there is a great virtue in doing nothing successfully at times—our good-natured Horncastle friend found us out, and kindly placed himself at our disposal for a whole day, which he suggested we should employ in exploring the country round about; so we arranged to drive with him where he would, and accordingly one morning fared forth in his company for a “regular antiquarian day” as he quaintly put it.
Leaving Woodhall we soon came to a bit of open moorland, with a tall ruined tower standing solitary on the highest point thereof, a prominent and picturesque feature in the prospect. This is a portion of a stately hunting-box erected by the Lord-Treasurer Cromwell towards the end of the fifteenth century, who also built the grand Tattershall Castle, which we shall see in due course. This ruined hunting-box is locally known as “the Tower on the Moor,” perhaps some day this may suggest a title to a novelist. The interesting country around is, I believe, virgin ground to the romancer, a ground that, it seems to me, would well repay exploiting,—possibly, however, from a hint a famous novelist gave me, it may by this time have been exploited!
Then by a pleasant lane we came to a lonely farmstead called High Rigge. Here we pulled up for a few minutes to inspect a very fine and quite perfect “celt” of smooth-polished greenstone that had lately been ploughed up on one of the farm fields, and was carefully preserved in the house, and I hope it will remain there and not be conveyed away to enrich a private collection, as so manyother relics of the past have been, and thereby lost to the public. It would be a good thing if in each county capital there were a local museum established where such local finds could be preserved and inspected. I feel that each county has a right to the possession of its own antiquarian treasures; such museums too would add greatly to the pleasure and the interest of the tourist and traveller. County people would doubtless take a pride in and contribute to them, so that they would soon become centres of attraction.
A RUINED ORATORY
From High Rigge we proceeded along a narrow country lane—with gates to open here and there on the way—to a picturesque and interesting old moated house known as Poolham Hall, now doing duty as a farmstead. The house, with the wide moat around, makes a very pleasing picture, but all the interest is external, within is nothing that calls for comment. The moat encircles not only the farm buildings but an ample garden; indeed, the amount of ground it encloses, we were told, was close upon two acres, which shows that Poolham Hall was at one time a place of considerable importance. In the garden stand the crumbling ruins of an ancient oratory, roofless, and ivy-grown, and fast hastening to further decay. Our friend asked where a certain tomb slab was that he remembered seeing there some years back, but it had disappeared no one knew whither; presumably it was the memorial of some important personage buried in the oratory,—the master of the manor with small doubt; however, it has apparently perished, so hard is it in this worldfor even “the proud and mighty” to ensure their last resting-place from oblivion or desecration. But better this surely than the fate of certain great Egyptian kings, lordly despots in their day, whose mummified bodies have been exposed to the vulgar gaze, and knocked down at auction in London to the highest bidder! But what matters it? it will all be the same in a million years hence more or less—when this planet with others “may roll round the sun with the dust of a vanished race!” Here in the moat we were told was found a very curious object in decorative earthenware, which proved to be a chrismatory, presumed to have belonged to the oratory; the vessel is provided with two wells for the oil and salt as used in the Roman Catholic Baptismal rite, so our learned guide informed us. This ancient and very curious chrismatory is now carefully preserved in Langton church by Horncastle, and, with permission of the rector, may be seen there by the curious.
A long discourse—The origin of a coat-of-arms—An English serf—A witch-stone—Lincolnshire folk-lore—A collar for lunatics—St. Mary’s thistle—A notable robbery—An architectural gem—Coningsby—Tattershall church and castle—Lowland and upland—“Beckingham-behind-the-Times”—Old Lincolnshire folk.
A long discourse—The origin of a coat-of-arms—An English serf—A witch-stone—Lincolnshire folk-lore—A collar for lunatics—St. Mary’s thistle—A notable robbery—An architectural gem—Coningsby—Tattershall church and castle—Lowland and upland—“Beckingham-behind-the-Times”—Old Lincolnshire folk.
FromPoolham Hall we drove on through a lovely country, remote from railways, and pervaded by a peaceful, mellow, homelike look; bound for the out-of-the-world hamlet of Wispington. On the way our antiquarian friend began a long discourse; I write long advisedly because it lasted for nearly, if not quite, four miles, and how much longer it would have lasted I cannot say, for on arriving at a junction of roads, we broke the thread of the discourse by inquiring which road we should take. “Why, bless my soul,” exclaimed he, “we’ve driven two miles out of our way, I quite forgot all about where we were going! This comes of our very interesting conversation.” We thought “ourvery interesting conversation” was an excellent conceit, considering that we had been merely patient listeners all the time: however, we jokingly remarked that the talk was worth the added miles, and after all we arrived at Wispington with the best of theday still before us; there we drove up to the rectory and fortunately found the rector, an enthusiastic antiquary like our companion, at home.
First, we were taken to see the church, a modern one decorated within with carvings in Caen stone representing the animals and birds of the Old Testament done by a former incumbent, and containing some tombstone slabs and brasses preserved from the ancient church it had supplanted. In the pavement of the vestry we had pointed out to us an ancient incised slab (broken) to the memory of John Hetsete, a priest; this was dated 1394. The slab is of much interest as showing the priest in vestments holding a chalice in gloved hands, tightly buttoned. I cannot remember ever having come upon a priest represented thus with gloved hands. I am not sufficient of an antiquary to say whether this feature is unique, it certainly is very uncommon.
A brass, now on the south wall of the church near the porch, is inscribed to the memory of Robert Tyrwhitt; here on a shield is shown the coat-of-arms of the family “three pewits d’or proper on a field gules,” if that be the correct heraldic way of putting it. To this coat-of-arms belongs a little history. We were informed that one of the ancestors of the family after a gallant fight in battle with the Scots (name and date unremembered) fell on the field seriously wounded. After long search, he was found by his relations, hidden from view in a bed of reeds, their attention having been attracted to the spot by three pewits hovering over it, utteringplaintive cries the while. From this circumstance, the family adopted three pewits as their coat-of-arms, likewise taking the name of Tyrwhitt, the latter being supposed to represent the cry of that bird. Thereupon—in the spirit of inquiry that ever besets us—we wanted to know what the name of the family was before that eventful occasion, but could obtain no information on the point. One really should not be so exacting about pretty traditions; it is an artistic sin for the commission of which I now, too late, repent.
ANTIQUARIAN TREASURES
Then we returned to the rectory, where the rector most kindly showed us some of his valued antiquarian treasures. One of these consisted of an old parchment document written in Latin, and very beautifully written too, the lettering being as black and as clear as when first done long changeful centuries ago, for the deed bears the date of 1282. The document, which was presumably drafted in the Abbey of Bardney, and was signed in the chapter house thereof, gives particulars of the sale of a serf with his family. A circumstance that throws a startling sidelight on the condition of England at the time. Curiously enough, in a further document, the same serf appears as rector of a neighbouring parish, and even purchases land there in 1285. The true inwardness of all this it would be interesting to discover.
Then the rector brought out a “witch-stone” from his treasure store to show us; this he found hanging on a cottage door and serving as a charm against all evil. It is merely a small flint with ahole in the centre, through which hole was strung a piece of cord to hang it up with. A “witch-stone” hung up on, or over, the entrance door of a house is supposed to protect the inhabitants from all harm; in the same way do not some enlightened people nail a horse-shoe over their door “for good luck”? To ensure this “good-luck” I understand you must find a horse-shoe “accidentally on the road” without looking for it; to procure a “witch-stone” you must in like manner come upon a stone (of any kind) with a hole through the centre when you are not thinking about any such thing.
Then our host related to us a curious story that had been told to him as true history. According to this, a certain Lincolnshire miser died (I withhold, name, date, and place), and was duly placed in his coffin overnight; but then a strange thing happened, next morning the body had disappeared and its place was taken up with stones; it being presumed that the Devil had made off with his body and had placed the stones in the coffin in exchange. But one would have imagined that it was the man’s spirit not his body that his Satanic Majesty desired—but there I am always over-critical and too exacting about details. By the way this reminds me we were told, that the Lincolnshire folk never call the Devil openly by that familiar designation, but speak of him in an undertone, as either “Samuel,” “Old Lad,” or “Bargus.”
Then we gleaned some particulars of old Lincolnshire folk-lore. Here, for example, is an infallible charm to get power over the Devil, I mean “Samuel.”
CHARMS
On St. Mark’s Eve, precisely at twelve o’clock, hold two pewter platters one over the other, take these to where bracken grows, hold the platters under the plants for the seeds to drop in, then you will find that the seeds will go right through the top platter and be caught in the one below; upon this “Samuel” will appear riding on a pig and tell you anything you want to know. Here is another charm. Kill a hedge-hog and smear two thorn-sticks with his blood, place these in a hedge-bottom and leave them there for fourteen days, if not moved meanwhile you will have your wish. I give these two charms as a fair sample of others, and I think they will well suffice!
Leaving Wispington, we came in about half a mile to a spot where four roads meet, a burial-place for suicides in times past, and reputed to be the centre of Lincolnshire. Then driving on we reached Horsington. In the register of burials here is a notice of “Bridget Hall buried in her own gardenA.D.16.” She lived at Hail Farm near by, our friend told us, and directed in her will that she should be buried in her own garden, and that her body should be laid north and south, as she considered it “too Popish to be buried east and west in a churchyard!” Some years ago the then occupier of that farm, we further learnt, on digging a drain in the same garden came upon a skeleton lying north and south; presumably that of Bridget Hall.
In the vestry of the church here, according to our informant, used to be preserved in a box astrange relic of other days and ways, in the shape of a brass collar by which poor unfortunate lunatics were chained to a wall. Where the collar has gone no one seems to know or care; however, it has disappeared, to the grief of antiquaries. “Though I cannot show you the collar, I can still show you something curious and interesting,” said our friend. Whereupon he went into the churchyard, and after some searching plucked a thistle; this did not seem anything wonderful to us, not being botanists, but he pointed out to us that it was peculiarly marked with unusual gray lines all over. This, we were informed, is called the “Holy Thistle,” or “Mary’s Thistle,” and it used to be grown by the monks at Kirkstead Abbey a few miles away, and even until a few years ago specimens thereof might have been found in the fields that now surround the abbey ruins, but the farmers had rooted them all up. Arthur Thistlewood of the Cato Street conspiracy was born here at Horsington, we learnt, his real name being Burnet. The birthplace of still another famous man had we come across!
Next we drove on to Halstead Hall, an ancient building set back some way from the road, showing signs of its former importance, but now, like so many other ancient halls, converted into a pleasant farmstead. The hall was moated, but the moat has been drained dry; the house is famous locally for a daring and a remarkable robbery committed there in 1829,—an event that still affords subject for the country folk to talk and enlarge about, at least we heard a good deal about it. The house, we understood,
AN “ANTIQUARIAN DAY”
was broken into by a band of robbers who tied up the men-servants in a stable, first gagging them; and then locked up the family and the maids in a store-room. After this they sat down in the hall and feasted; the repast over, they leisurely collected all the silver plate and money they could find, and quietly departed. Three of the band were afterwards captured and hanged at Lincoln; one of them, a certain Timothy Brammer, when on the scaffold, kicked off his shoes, as he declared, to falsify the prophecy of his friends that “he would die in his shoes”; the doing of this appeared to afford him a grim sort of satisfaction. Then by the hamlet of Stixwold we returned to Woodhall Spa after a very interesting “antiquarian day.”
We left Woodhall Spa regretfully, and upon mounting our dogcart to resume our tour the genial landlord of the Royal Hotel and most of the guests thereof, whose acquaintance we had made during our too short stay, came to the door to bid us goodbye and a prosperous journey,—yet we had only arrived there a few days before, perfect strangers in the land! Truly we had paid our modest bill, notwithstanding which we left in debt to the landlord for all his kindness to us, for which no charge was made!
It was a cloudy day; the barometer was falling; the wind blew wild and warm from the west. “You’ll have rain, and plenty of it,” prophesied one of the party; “better stay on till to-morrow.” The temptation was great, but if we dallied thus on the way at every pleasant spot we should hardly gethome before the winter, so we hardened our hearts and drove away. The rain did not actually come down, but we noticed great banks of threatening gray storm-clouds in serried ranks gathered on the low horizon that foreboded ill, with an advance guard of vast detached masses of aqueous vapours, wind-woven into fantastic forms. The sky-scape at any rate was interesting. “It looks stormy,” exclaimed we, to a man, in response to a polite “Good-morning” he bade us as we passed him by. “It do look so,” replied he, “but we won’t get any wet worth speaking of whilst this wind keeps up.” This was reassuring. We have generally found country folk more reliable about the immediate future of the weather than the falling or rising of the barometer, for local conditions are often an important factor in the case and modify the barometer’s forecast.
About a mile on our way we noticed the slight remains of the once famous and wealthy Cistercian Abbey of Kirkstead. These consist simply of a tall fragment of the transept and some walling, standing alone in the midst of a wide grass field. Beyond this, in an adjoining meadow, we espied a most beautiful little Early English chapel, perfectly pure in style. This was enclosed in a neglected-looking graveyard, the rusty gates of which were carefully locked, so that we were, perforce, obliged to climb over them to inspect the building, which was also carefully locked up, and, I regret to add, very fast going to irretrievable decay for the want of a little timely repair. Why, I wonder, is such a rare architectural gem as this allowed to go thus theway of all uncared-for things? Is there not a “Society for the Preservation of Ancient Buildings” of interest? Can it do nothing to preserve for us this relic of former days?
A CHANTRY CHAPEL
At first sight it appears curious to find such a beautiful chapel in such close proximity to a lordly abbey; manifestly, however, the building was a chantry chapel, presumably for the benefit of the soul of the second Lord of Tattershall, as his armoured effigy is still within the desolated chapel, which was, doubtless, erected near to the abbey for the convenience and certainty of priestly service.
As we drove on, shortly the tall tower of Tattershall Castle stood forth ahead of us, showing darkly gray against the stormy sky, a striking object in the level landscape, powerfully asserting itself on the near horizon, some three or four miles by winding road away, though possibly a good mile less “as the crow flies.” Soon we came to the little river Bain, which we crossed on a rather creaky wooden bridge—the scenery about the river here is very pretty and most paintable—and found ourselves in Coningsby, a remote Lincolnshire village, whose name, however, has become well known from its having provided Lord Beaconsfield with the title for his famous novel. Coningsby possesses a fine old church, with a somewhat disappointing interior. We noticed in the porch here a large holy-water stoup, opening both internally and externally; above the porch is a parvise chamber of the usual type. Within the church, at the top of a pillar of the north aisle, is a carving of a “scold” gagged, just one of thosesubjects that delighted the humour of the medieval sculptor to portray.
Then another mile brought us to Tattershall, a small hamlet dominated and dwarfed by its truly magnificent church (more like a cathedral than a village fane, and of a size out of all proportion to the present, possibly also the past, needs of the parish) and by its stately old castle, towering high above all around. The church we found open, but desolate within, it being given over to workmen for much-needed repairs; the pavement in places, we noticed, was fouled by birds and wet with recent rain that had come in through holes in the roof. It was a pathetic sight to behold the grand old church in its faded magnificence, bare, cold, and colourless, robbed long ago of its glorious stained-glass windows, that once made it the pride of the whole countryside. Strange it seems that these splendid windows, that had miraculously escaped the Puritan crusade, should have been allowed to be carted away only the last century (in 1757) to enrich another church! Truly the Puritans were not the only spoilers. Here in the north transept is preserved a series of exceedingly fine and very interesting, though mutilated and damaged, brasses, removed from their rightful place in the chancel pavement some years ago, and now huddled together in a meaningless way. One of these is of Lord-Treasurer Cromwell, the builder of Tattershall church and castle. Another very fine brass is that of a provost with a richly-adorned cope. These brasses will well repay careful study.
Of Tattershall, besides some insignificant and
TATTERSHALL TOWER
much-ruined outbuildings, only the stately tower keep remains. A truly magnificent specimen of medieval brick building, rectangular in shape and embattled on the top; it is flanked on each angle by four octagonal smaller towers. These were formerly provided with high-pitched roofs, of which only one is now extant, though I find from an old engraving, after a drawing by T. Allom, in my possession, that there were three of these roofs existing in 1830. Round the top of the building runs a projecting gallery supported by very bold and massive stone machicolations; these give a special character to the structure, and enhance its effective picturesqueness.
For a castle keep the open Gothic windows seem strangely inconsistent. From this fact one can hardly imagine that it was intended for serious defence, yet, on the other hand, there are plain traces of the double moats that once surrounded the place, and were presumably supplied by water from the river Bain, which suggest a considerable amount of precaution against attack. It may be that the moats formed part of a former stronghold, and were simply retained because they were there. The castle is built of small and very hard brick, said by tradition to have been imported from Flanders. Externally the structure, except for its time-toned look, sundry weather scars, and loss of its three turret-tops, is much the same as when the ancient builders left it; within it is a mere shell, floorless and roofless. In the walls are some fine and well-preserved carved stone mantelpieces, some of which are adorned withheraldic devices, and a representation of a full purse, symbolic, we imagined, of the post of Lord-Treasurer held by the owner. Over one fireplace we noticed an inscription in Norman-French,Nay le Droit, which, rightly or wrongly, we translated into “Have I not the right?”
We ascended to the top of the keep, and beyond to the top of one of the flanking turrets, by a spiral staircase of innumerable steps that is happily complete and is contained within one of the angle towers. This staircase is provided with a handrail ingeniously recessed in the side wall. A Lincolnshire antiquary we afterwards met assured me that this is the earliest handrail to a staircase known. I merely repeat what I have been told on apparently good authority, but I must confess I should have imagined that this convenience was of more ancient origin; however, in this matter my antiquarian knowledge does not carry me far enough. From the topmost tower we had a truly magnificent panorama presented to us; we looked down upon a wide green world, enlivened by the gray gleam of winding water-ways, and encircled by a horizon darkly, intensely blue. Our visions ranged over vast leagues of flat Fenland and wild wold. On one hand we could just trace the distance-dwarfed outlines of Lincoln’s lordly minster, on the other the faint form of Boston’s famous “stump.”
Before leaving Tattershall we made a sketch of the glorious old tower that uprises so grandly from the level land around, which sketch is engraved with this chapter, and will give a better idea of the
TATTERSHALL TOWER.
TATTERSHALL TOWER.
TATTERSHALL TOWER.
stately pile than pages of printed description possibly could. It is a truly splendid specimen of medieval brick-work, and until I saw it I considered Layer Marney tower in Essex the finest example of brick building of the kind in England, Hurstmonceaux Castle in Sussex coming next; but now I have no hesitation whatever in giving the first place to Tattershall tower.
IN FENLAND AGAIN
After finishing our sketch we once more resumed our pleasant pilgrimage, and soon found ourselves traversing a wide and wild Fenland district, over which the west wind blew fresh and strong. In a mile or so we crossed the river Witham, here running painfully straight between its embanked sides, more like a mighty dyke or canal than anything else, as though it were not to be trusted to flow as it would; but this is, more or less, the nature of nearly all the Fenland streams. Then we had a long stretch of level road, good for cycling, which faithfully followed for miles the side of a great “drain” (unhappy term), the road not being more than four feet above the water. So we came to Billinghay, a sleepy, remote, medieval-looking town, or large village, set well away from the busy world in the heart of the Fens; it gave us a feeling that it might be a hundred miles withdrawn from modern civilisation. A more dreamy—dreary, if you will—spot it would be hard to find in crowded England, and for this reason, though hardly to be termed picturesque, it fascinated us. It had such a quaint, old-world air, suggestive of untold rest—a peacefulness that is hardly of to-day.
Passing through another stretch of level Fenland, wide and free, we reached the pretty village of Anwick, where, as we drove through, we noticed a charming thatched cottage with big dormer windows in the roof, and walls so ivy-grown that we could not tell whether they were of stone, or flint, or brick,—a picture by the way. Here also we noticed three curious round buildings, each with a conical roof of thatch, from the apex of which rose a circular chimney. One of these did duty as a blacksmith’s shop. After Anwick the country gradually lost its fen-like character, hedges took the place of dykes as fences, the streams were no longer embanked, the land became mildly undulating, and suddenly we found ourselves back again in “sleepy Sleaford.” Here the gray-haired waiter recognised and welcomed us. While chatting with him as he laid our evening meal, he told us that he had come to the inn for a day, and had stayed on there for fifty years!
We left Sleaford early the next morning bound for Beckingham, and beyond to either Newark or Grantham. We went to Beckingham, as our antiquarian friend we had met at Horncastle had told us that the old hall there was full of the most beautiful and interesting art treasures, including some priceless tapestry. “I will write to the rector of the village,” said he in the kindness of his heart; “he is a friend of mine, and I will tell him you are coming, and ask him to show you over the hall; you must not miss it. And if you go home through Grantham, as I expect you will, you really mustsee Staunton Hall near there; it is a house with a history. I will give you a letter of introduction to the owner in case you may be able to use it.” And this he did thereupon! Such was an example of the many kindnessespressedupon us in the course of our tour. And to be a little previous, I may here state that on arriving at Beckingham, the genial rector there would not hear of our proceeding farther that day, but good-naturedly insisted upon our staying with him for the night as his guests, stabling our horses besides! Could kindness to utter strangers much farther go? “You’re heartily welcome,” said the rector smiling, and most hospitably did he entertain us. But, as I have already remarked, I am a little previous.
LINCOLNSHIRE UPLANDS
Shortly after leaving Sleaford we entered upon a wild, open country, hilly and sparsely populated, a country that reminded us forcibly of the Cotswolds, and one as different as possible from the level lowlands we had traversed the previous day. Once more it was brought to our minds that Lincolnshire is a land of hills as well as of fens! We were upon a glorious stretch of uplands that rose and fell around us in mighty sweeps, chequered by great fields, and enlivened here and there by comfortable-looking stone-built farmsteads, each with its rambling colony of outbuildings and corn-ricks gathered around. These, with a stray cottage or two for farm-labourers, saved the prospect from being desolate. Here water seems as scarce as it is over-abundant in the Fens! Indeed, we were afterwards told that sometimes in dry summerswater in the district is a rarer article than beer! This may be a slight exaggeration, though one gentleman who had a house in the neighbourhood assured us, that owing to his having to fetch all the water used in his establishment, he reckoned that in the year water was a dearer commodity to him than ale!
It was a grand drive we had over those bracing uplands, and we were sorry when this portion of our stage came to an end, and we found ourselves descending from them through a deep rocky cutting, overhung with shady trees, into the very charming village of Leadenham, that struck us as being clean, neat, and picturesque, a dreamy spot yet not dull. The houses there are well built of stone, and most of them have pleasant gardens, and all of them look cheerful. In the church we noticed some rather curious stained glass, but nothing else of special interest.
Beyond Leadenham we entered upon a rich, level, and purely agricultural country, the most notable feature of which was the large size of the fields. A short drive brought us to Brant Broughton, another very charming village, with an old church remarkable for the beauty and richness of its interior decorations. In the porch of this we were attracted by some curious lettering that we could make nothing of, except two dates 1630 and 1636. The church is glorious with gilt and colour, stained glass, and carvings; it looks all very Catholic and artistic, and should please those who like an ornate place of worship. Not only is the church beautifulhere, but the churchyard is well kept. These two things should ever go together, but, alas! such is the rare exception.
A DISAPPOINTMENT
Then we had an uneventful drive on to Beckingham, where, as already related, we received a hearty welcome. But the hall which we had been sent here to see was bare! This was a disappointment as we had been led to expect so much of it. The house itself was plain and of no architectural merit whatever, not worth crossing even a road to see. The rector informed us that the property was left by the late squire to the second son of his eldest son, failing him to the second son of his second son; and there has never been a second son to either of them. The last squire but one was, according to report, somewhat of a character, for on winter evenings he used to go the round of the village at eight o’clock and act the part of the Curfew, calling out to the cottagers as he went by that it was time to go to bed and put the fires out! What the cottagers thought of this proceeding we did not learn.
The church of Beckingham is of no special interest, though, like most ancient churches, it possesses some curious features, and contains a quaint old Elizabethan clock in the tower, still keeping, more or less, faithful time. In 1810, the then rector, we were told, used to pay his workmen’s wages on a Sunday morning, and the village shops were kept open on that day. Amongst the Entry of Marriages here, the following is perhaps worthy of a passing note:—“Under the Directory for thePublic Worship of God, 1645, Robert Parker and Anne Vicars were married on the 24th of May 1647, according to the Directory.” Amongst the Entry of Burials we made a note of the following:—“Thomas Parker was buried in his mother’s garden, April 15, 1681.” It seems to have been not a very uncommon thing at the period for persons to be buried in gardens, burial in a churchyard being considered by some as flavouring too much of Popery! This was the second record of such an interment we had come upon within a week. Beckingham, we learnt, was five miles from a railway; it looked a thousand to us, though when we came to think of it we had to confess that we had never been so far from a railway in our lives, except when on the mid-Atlantic! It used to be called “Beckingham-behind-the-Times,” the rector said. Well, it does not look as though it were much ahead of them now! It is a primitive place, without the virtue of being picturesque.
Next morning our kind host with thoughtful intent took us out to call on some of his oldest parishioners, the youngest of whom was eighty-two, in case we might gather something of interest from their conversation. One old man we visited was eighty-nine, and his wife was eighty-five. His father and grandfather had lived and died in Beckingham, he told us, and though close upon ninety he still managed to do all the work on a garden of over an acre. He had only travelled in a train once, and that was to London; he had only smoked once, and then he smoked five ounces of tobacco right
CHATS WITH ANCIENT FOLK
off, and his tongue was sore for weeks afterwards; he could see no pleasure in smoking. When he was a young man he used generally to walk to Lincoln and back on Sundays, a distance of twenty-nine miles, besides doing his regular work as a farm-labourer on week-days, for which he was paid the exorbitant wage of from 7s. to 9s. a week, out of which he actually managed to pay rent for a cottage and brought up a family of twelve children. “My hours of toil were from six o’clock in the morning till six o’clock in the evening, and I had to start from my home at five and got back at seven.” We thought the expression “my hours of toil” much to the point; but he did not appear to consider that his life had been a particularly hard one, indeed he remarked that he could not understand the present generation—“they can neither work nor walk,” and he praised God that he could still work!
Then we visited a Mrs. Sarah Watson, who said she was born in 1805. When she was a girl she saw a man hanging on a gibbet at Harby in Lincolnshire, which stood on the spot where he committed a murder. She used to go out to the gibbet with friends to watch which of the murderer’s bones would fall off next! “Ah! them were the good old days,” she exclaimed, “life were exciting then. Now I cannot walk; but I’m fond of reading. I’ve read the Bible through from the first page to the last, all save the hard names, and I’ve begun it afresh but have not got through it again yet. I’ve readPilgrims Progress; thatisan interesting book, I did enjoy it.” There was something very pathetic in our talks with these poor and patient old folk, and I could moralise here were I inclined that way, but I prefer to leave my readers to do this for themselves. I give the text and spare the sermon!
A cross-country road—A famous hill—Another medieval inn—“The Drunken Sermon”—Bottesford—Staunton Hall—Old family deeds—A chained library—Woolsthorpe manor-house—A great inventor!—Melton Mowbray—Oakham—A quaint old manorial custom—Rockingham Castle—Kirby.
A cross-country road—A famous hill—Another medieval inn—“The Drunken Sermon”—Bottesford—Staunton Hall—Old family deeds—A chained library—Woolsthorpe manor-house—A great inventor!—Melton Mowbray—Oakham—A quaint old manorial custom—Rockingham Castle—Kirby.
From“Beckingham-behind-the-Times” we drove on to the old historic town of Grantham, a town that still retains much of its ancient picturesqueness though it is certainly not slothful, but rather pleasantly progressive. Our road led us through a very pretty country, but the way was rather hard to find as the turnings were many, the guide-posts few, and some of the few illegible. As we drove on, the distance showed clearly defined and darkly blue, we could plainly see the spire of Claypole church on the horizon, rising sharply into the air over wood and field; now there is a local saying at Beckingham that “when you cannot see Claypole church spire, it is sure to be fine,” if the converse of this meant rain we ought to have had it, for besides the barometer was low and falling, and the sky cloudy, so the road being good, though narrow, we sped along with what haste we could.
At Fenton, the first hamlet we came to, we pulled up a few minutes in spite of the threateningweather, to inspect a picturesque and interesting old manor-house, a little off the wayside, a house somewhat modernised, and apparently turned into a farmstead. Just above one of the windows of this was a stone inscribed “1507—R. L.,” and in front of it separated by a little garden, which erst doubtless formed a courtyard, stood a gray old Jacobean gateway, with a coat-of-arms boldly engraved on the top. Just beyond this time-toned manor-house was the ancient church, worn and gray; the hoary church and old-time home with its quaint gateway made a very effective picture; a genuine bit of old England. Manifestly the country about here is not one given to change, it all bears a mellow, peaceful look that comes of contented abiding, and is so soothing to the eye, wearied with the ugliness of modern towns, and the architectural eyesores of the modern builder.
Then proceeding in due course, we passed through Stubton, a little hamlet in no special way noteworthy, with its churchyard by the roadside, a goodly portion of the latter being taken up with a yew-enclosed tomb. We needs must carry our dignity down to the grave—but how of the humble dead who lie beneath their grass-grown graves un-monumented?
Forget not Earth, thy disappointed Dead!Forget not Earth, thy disinherited!Forget not the forgotten! keep a strainOf divine sorrow in sweet undertoneFor all the dead who lived and died in vain!Imperial Future when in countless trainThe generations lead thee to thy throne,Forget not the forgotten and unknown!
Forget not Earth, thy disappointed Dead!Forget not Earth, thy disinherited!Forget not the forgotten! keep a strainOf divine sorrow in sweet undertoneFor all the dead who lived and died in vain!Imperial Future when in countless trainThe generations lead thee to thy throne,Forget not the forgotten and unknown!
Forget not Earth, thy disappointed Dead!Forget not Earth, thy disinherited!Forget not the forgotten! keep a strainOf divine sorrow in sweet undertoneFor all the dead who lived and died in vain!Imperial Future when in countless trainThe generations lead thee to thy throne,Forget not the forgotten and unknown!
LINCOLNSHIRE HILLS
In another mile or two we reached the charming village of Brandon situated in a wooded valley, backed by a long line of church-dotted hills; a line of hills stretching far away to the right and left that form the backbone of Lincolnshire, and are known locally by the curious title of “the Cliff.” From this pleasant rural spot an excellent going road brought us to another pretty village with a grand and very interesting-looking church, in the quiet God’s acre of which was a quaint sun-dial raised on the top of a tall stone pillar; the church doors were carefully locked, so we did not see inside. As at Fenton, so here, close by the church, stands an old manor-hall, a pleasant bit of past-century building.
Soon after this we struck upon the old Great North Road and began to mount the long and stiff Gonerby Hill, famous in the old coaching days as the worst “pitch” on the road between London and Edinburgh. It is a striking fact that the worst hill on the old main high-road, close upon four hundred miles in length, should be in Lincolnshire, a county supposed to be so flat! It may be remembered that Scott, who frequently travelled this road, makes mention of this hill inThe Heart of Midlothian. Jeanie Deans, on leaving the Saracen’s Head at Newark, bound for Grantham, was assured, “It was all plain road, except a high mountain called Gunnerby Hill about three miles from Grantham, which was her stage for the night. ‘I’m glad to hear there’s a hill,’ said Jeanie, ‘for baith my sight and my very feet are weary o’ sic tracts o’ level ground—it looks a’ the way between thisand York as if a’ the land had been trenched and levelled, whilk is very wearisome to my Scotch een....’ ‘As for the matter of that, young woman,’ said mine host, ‘an you be so fond o’ hill, I carena an thou couldst carry Gunnerby away with thee in thy lap, for it’s a murder to post-horses.’”
From the top of Gonerby Hill or Gunnerby (according to the old maps) we had a long run down into Grantham, where we sought “shelter and a night’s lodging” beneath the sign of the “Angel,” one of the few medieval hostelries left to us; at the moment I can only call to memory six others in England, but there may be more.
A most interesting old building is the Angel at Grantham, with its weather-worn and time-stained front of stone facing the street and giving it quite a special character; nor do you come upon so aged and historic an hostelry every day. At the end of the drip mouldings on either side of the central archway that gives access to the building, are sculptured heads representing those of Edward III. and Philippa his Queen; at least so we were told, we had no other means of knowing whom the heads were intended for. One has to take many things on faith in this world! Over the archway projects a fine oriel window ornamented with carvings, the window being supported on a corbel composed of an angel with outspread wings. It was in this very building—according to our landlord who had naturally studied the history of his old house—that King John held his Court on 23rd February 1213(a fairly long time to date back to); and Richard III. signed the death-warrant of the Duke of Buckingham on 19th October 1483, in a room still called the “King’s Chamber.” We found that we had this very chamber allotted to us as our bedroom—a room that surely should be haunted, if ever a room were; but we slept soundly there, and if any ghost did appear he did not disturb us; anyway we were far too sleepy, after our long drive in the open air, to trouble about such trifles as ghosts! I verily believe if one had appeared that we should simply have turned lazily over, and have told him angrily not to bother us! A driving tour begets iron nerves and dreamless slumbers.
A STORIED HOSTELRY
Here in this ancient and storied hostelry we latter-day travellers were made exceedingly comfortable; we were even provided with the wholly unexpected, and, be it confessed, undesired, luxury of the electric light—which indeed appeared far too anachronistic for its surroundings. So comfortable were we made, that, remembering our letter of introduction, and finding that Staunton Hall was some nine miles away, we determined to drive there and back on the morrow, and stay on at the “Angel” over another day, though we required no excuse to do so.
During the evening, whilst making sundry small purchases at a shop, we overheard one of a party of purchasers ask another if he had heard the drunken sermon? The question sounded to us like a bit of local scandal, and though we much dislike all scandal, still in this case curiosity got thebetter of our dislikes, and when his customers had gone, we ventured to ask the shopman what the scandal was. “Bless you, sir,” replied he, “there’s no scandal at all; we’re far too good in Grantham to have any scandals.” We were delighted to hear this, and thereupon thought what a delightful place Grantham must be to live in! It was explained to us that, according to an ancient will of a certain Michael Solomon, the tenant of the “Angel” has to pay a sum of two guineas every year to the vicar, in return for which the vicar has to preach a sermon against drunkenness, which he does annually on the first Sunday after the mayor’s election. And this sermon is known locally as the “drunken sermon.” I only devoutly wish that all scandals were so readily explained away, for then the world would be a much pleasanter place to live in!
Early next morning we set off for Staunton Hall. Soon after getting free of the town we had a fine, though distant, view of Belvoir Castle, rising prominently and picturesquely out of the woods to our left, with the misty hills of Leicestershire forming an effective background. Passing on through a pleasant stretch of country we reached the pretty village of Bottesford, where we forded a little river, hence doubtless the name. Here we observed the steps and base of the shaft of a market-cross. The church chanced to be open, so we took a glance inside and found there a number of grand monuments to the Lords of Belvoir. A portion of the inscription on the magnificent tomb of the sixth Earl of Rutland we copied as showing the strangefaith in sorcery held at the period even in the highest ranks of society, and this is it: “In 1608, he married ye Lady Cecilia Hungerford by whom he had two sonnes both w̄ch died in their infancy by wicked practise and sorcerye.” Monumental inscriptions are oftentimes curious reading, and frequently throw interesting sidelights on the superstitions and manners of bygone days.