book I had, it seemed to me, concluded with a moral; till at last, I

remember, I used first to look at the end of any new work that was given to me, and if I found the expected moral there, I troubled it no further!

We were shown much more of interest in Stamford, a town every square yard of which is history; but space forbids a detailed description of all we saw. One old house we were taken over had a very quaint and finely-enriched plaster ceiling, for builders of ancient homes did not believe in a flat void of whitewash. The ornaments of this ceiling were rendered in deep relief, the chief amongst them being animals playfully arranged; for instance there was, I remember, a goose in the centre of one panel with a fox greedily watching it on either side; another panel showed a poor mouse with two cats eyeing it on either hand; then there was a hare similarly gloated over by two hounds; and so forth. We visited the site of the castle and saw the last bit of crumbling wall left of the once imposing stronghold, also the small remains of old St. Stephen’s gate: then we returned to our hotel, our good-natured antiquarian friend still keeping us company.

Reaching the bridge that crosses the Welland river, which structure has taken the place of the “stone-ford,” we had pointed out to us a line marked upon it with an inscription, showing the height of the water at the spot during the memorable flood of 15th July 1880, when the swollen river rose above the arches of the bridge. On that occasion, we learnt, our inn was flooded, the water reaching even to the top of the billiard-table. During a former great flood in the seventeenth century, we were told, the horses in the “George” stables were actually drowned at their stalls.

At our inn we reluctantly parted company with our entertaining companion, not, however, before we had thanked him for his kindness to us as strangers. It is these pleasant chance acquaintances the wanderer so frequently makes that add a wonderful zest to the pleasures of travel.

The sign of the “George” inn, as of old, still hangs from the centre of a beam that stretches right across the roadway; it is said that there are only some twenty-five or twenty-seven signs remaining in England so arranged. At the village of Barley in Herts, on the highway from London to Cambridge, the “Fox and Hounds” possesses one of these signs. Here may be seen figures of huntsmen, hounds, and fox, represented as crossing the

[Sidenote: _A SPORTING SIGN_]

beam in full cry; the fox apparently just escaping into the thatched roof of the inn, the hounds immediately following, whilst the merry huntsmen bring up the rear. This very sporting sign shows well, being strongly silhouetted against the sky; it is full of spirit and movement, and has the charm of originality.

I have forgotten to say we were told that at the village of Ketton, in the near neighbourhood of Stamford, a gleaners’ bell used to be rung in due season, as well as the curfew; before the first ringing of the former no one might glean in the fields, nor after the second ringing was any one allowed to continue their gleaning under the penalty of a fine, which went to the ringers. I trust I need not apologise for making note of these old customs, from time to time, as I come upon them. The church at Ketton is considered to be the most beautiful in the county; it has a central tower with a broach spire, and has been compared with St. Mary’s at Stamford: the saying being that the latter “has the more dignity, but Ketton the greater grace.”

Before resuming our journey I may note that in the heyday of the coaching age, I find from an old “Way Bill” that the time allowed for the mail-coach from London to Stamford--89¼ miles--was 9 hours and 20 minutes, including changes.

Early next morning we set out from our ancient hostelry bound for Spalding, with the intention of visiting the once far-famed Fenland abbey of Crowland on the way, though from our map it appeared that the roads and the dykes were rather mixed up, and our route thither was not at all easy to trace; nor was the information we obtained at Stamford very helpful: “It’s a good road as far as Market Deeping,” we were told, “but beyond that you’ll have to find your way.” The worthy landlord of the “George” came to the door to see us off, and right sorry we felt to leave our genial host, comfortable quarters, and the interesting and historic town of Stamford that bade us such a pleasant welcome into Lincolnshire.

In about a mile, or less, as we drove on we espied some picturesque and important-looking ecclesiastical ruins; these we found to be the remains of the nave of St. Leonard’s Priory, now debased, part into a barn and part into a shed; and what a substantial barn the solid Norman work made! fit to last for centuries still, if let alone; and the shed upheld by the massive Norman pillars, between which the shafts of farm carts, and sundry agricultural implements peeped forth--what a grand shed it was! It is not always that a farmer has his out-buildings constructed by Norman masons! The west front of the Priory is happily little changed from its original state, the great arched doorway and windows above being built up, but nothing more; the arches are elaborately decorated, and suggest that when the whole was complete it must have been a fine specimen of Late Norman work. What a pity it is that such picturesque and interesting relics of the past are not carefully preserved as ruins, instead of being patched up and altered to serve purely utilitarian purposes. The ruin of a fine building like this, raised by skilled and pious hands for the glory of God and not for the profit of man, should be a prized possession and left to Mother Nature’s gentle care, which is far less destructive than man’s hands--even the restorers! There are many things to be done in the world, but you cannot convert the nave of a stately priory, hallowed by the worship within its walls of departed humanity, into a barn and a cart-shed consistently!

[Sidenote: _A SUNSHINY DAY_]

Now we entered upon a very pleasant stretch of greenful country, seeming doubly pleasant under the glamour of that soft sunshiny morning--a morning upon which the atmosphere was permeated with light, causing the grassy meadows and leafy trees to put on a rare, rich golden-green, as though glowing with brightness. Only under special conditions of weather and time shall you look upon scenery thus glorified. To slightly alter Wordsworth, such is--

The light that seldom is on sea or land, The consecration, and the Poet’s dream.

The blue sky overhead flecked with the lightest of summer clouds, the buoyant air, the sun-steeped landscape, the general brightness and cheerfulness of the day, impressed us with an indefinable but very real joyousness and light-heartedness. We felt in truth, just then, that the world was a very pleasant place to live in, and that especial corner of it known as England the pleasantest part thereof. Then, as we drove lazily on half lost in the luxury of day-dreaming--a very lotus-eaters’ land it seemed to be that soft and slumberous morning--some chance drifting of thought called to mind William Hazlitt’s remarks anent a walking tour, a recreation in which he delighted: “Give me,” says he, connoisseur of good things that he was, “the clear blue sky over my head, and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and a three hours’ march to dinner ... then I laugh, I leap, I sing for joy.” Well, we could not readily run, nor yet leap, as we were driving and in a quiet mood moreover, neither did we sing for joy; not that we took our pleasures sadly, but rather for the hour did we delight in a drowsy progress soothed into untold rest by the peace-bestowing quietude that prevailed all around: our happiness was too real to need any outward display, which but too often disturbs the deep repose of absolute content. Such a sensation of inward satisfaction with oneself and one’s surroundings comes not every day, not even with searching after, but when it comes it makes one thankfully realise the full meaning of--

that blessed mood In which the burden of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened.

Uffington, the first village on our way, proved to be a remarkably picturesque one, clean and neat, with solid stone-built cottages, some roofed with homely thatch, others with gray stone slabs, and all looking pictures of contentment--let us hope

[Sidenote: _“GENUINE ENGLISH BRANDY!”_]

it was not only looking! Soon after this we reached a roadside inn with a swinging sign-board that proclaimed it to be “The Tennyson’s Arms,” where we also learnt that we could quench our thirst with “strong ales.” This somehow called to mind another notice we saw at a country “public” elsewhere to this effect: “Ales and spirits sold here; also genuine English brandy.” The last item was distinctly novel! “The Tennyson’s Arms” reminded us that we were in the county that gave the great Victorian poet birth.

Next we came to Tallington, another clean and picturesque village: two desirable qualities that unhappily do not always go together. There we stopped to sketch and photograph a large stone-built pigeon-house that would hold a little army of birds, which stood in an old farmyard; a fierce-looking bull bellowing a loud disapproval of our proceedings--across a strong high fence.

Beyond Tallington we somehow got off our road and found ourselves in the remote and sleepy hamlet of Barholm, an uninteresting spot. On the tower of the church here, however, about half-way up, we observed a stone slab with a rather quaint inscription thereon that we made out, with some difficulty, to be--

Was ever such a thing Since the Creation A new steeple built In time of vexation ... 1648.

Then by cross-country crooked ways we reached Market Deeping, a sleepy, decayed little town, whose first name is now a misnomer, as the market is no more. The low-lying level country all around here, we learnt, was under water during the great flood of 1880, when the corn-fields were so flooded that only the tops of the ears of grain showed, and the ducks swam three to four feet above what is now dry land--a great event in local annals that even now affords a subject for local gossip. Such notable occurrences give the rural folk a time to reckon from, more to their liking than any date. “It were the year after the big flood,” or “Three years afore the flood,” and so forth, are the remarks that may frequently be heard. To a stranger in these parts, unaware of past happenings, it sounds curious to listen to some such saying as this: “I minds my father telling me, who died just afore the flood,” for to the average stranger “the flood” suggests the Biblical one, and that was some time ago now!

From Market Deeping to Deeping St. James--another old decayed town that looks as out-of-the-world and forsaken as though nothing would ever happen again there--was but a short distance, our road following the bends of the winding river Welland to our right, the air blowing refreshingly cool on our faces from the gliding water. So picturesque was the river-side with bordering old trees, cottages, and buildings, tumbling weir, which made a pleasing liquid melody on the quiet air, and wooden foot-bridge, that we were tempted to stop a while and sketch it. At Deeping St. James we noticed as we passed by its grand old church, whose dusky and crumbling walls tell the tale of the long centuries it has bravely weathered. Near to this ancient fane, in a wide space where three roads meet, stands a market cross apparently reconstructed from old material, presumably that of the fine Perpendicular Cross that is recorded to have stood somewhere here in past days.

[Sidenote: _SECRET CHAMBERS_]

Our antiquarian friend at Stamford had told us that shortly after leaving “the Deepings” we should pass close to the roadside an ideal old manor-house with a gateway-house in front, and having mullioned windows, courtyard, great hall, oak screen, with quaint and characteristic architectural details, that made it a most interesting place. “You _must_ see it,” he exclaimed after enlarging rapturously upon its rare beauties: a skeleton, he further informed us, had recently been found in the roof there, supposed to be that of a man stowed away and starved in a hiding-hole--without which advantage no old home of any pretensions was considered complete. Strange to say, even only the other day an architect of standing confided to me that more than once recently he had been called upon to provide a secret chamber in large houses he was employed to design: the real reason for this curious demand it would be interesting to know. I have seen quite a modern country house with a well-planned secret hiding-place, and the amount of ingenuity displayed in the contriving of this excited my utmost admiration. But why such things in the close of the nineteenth century?

The charming word-pictures of this old home, within and without, had raised both our expectations and curiosity. “You cannot possibly miss it,” we had been assured; nevertheless we did so most successfully, much to our regret and disappointment; in fact, to own the truth, we did not so much as obtain even a glimpse of it. This was exceedingly provoking; indeed, the roads about were very puzzling: they were very lonely also, for we never came across a soul of whom to ask the way. The country was a dead level and the hedges were high, so that we could not see much beyond the roadway; it was like being in a maze, the point being to find the old manor-house. Then it struck us as being rather a poor joke to say that we could not possibly miss it! Could we not? Why, we did so quite easily! Then we remembered that we had been told at Stamford that we should have to drive through the village of Peakirk to get to Crowland, and that we could not by any chance get there without so doing. But somehow again we managed to accomplish the impossible, for we eventually got to Crowland, but we never went through Peakirk or any other village. The state of affairs was this, that we had lost our way, there was no one about to put us right, sign-posts we looked for in vain, or if we found one it was past service: so we simply drove eastwards as far as we could, trusting to fate. Fortunately the day was fine, and time was not pressing; indeed, we rather enjoyed the delightful uncertainties of our position. We presumed that we should arrive somewhere at last, and that was enough for us. There is a sort of fascination in being lost at times--otherwise why do people go into mazes.

[Sidenote: _ANCIENT LANDMARKS_]

Just about here, it must be confessed, our map failed us; indeed, I am inclined to think that it omitted some of the roads altogether: quite possibly the engraver may have confused them with the river or the innumerable dykes that intersect the land in every direction. The more we studied the map the more confused we became, till we folded it up and put it carefully away, lest it should cause us to use bad language. A map that fails, just when you most need its guidance, what a temper-trying thing it is! However, a gentleman we met later on during our tour had something more temper-trying to contend with: it appeared that he started out touring in a motorcar, and the thing broke down utterly, on an unsheltered stretch of road in the midst of a drenching thunderstorm, so that he had to beg the loan of a horse from a farmer to get the machine housed. To make the matter worse, some of the people thought it a matter to laugh over, to see a horse lugging the helpless motor along; but remembering that horses sometimes go lame on a journey (though whilst touring we have never been delayed by such a mishap), we sympathised with our fellow-wayfarer.

Before we put our map away, however, a close scrutiny of it revealed to us two spots marked with a cross, and after each cross the legends respectively of “Kenulph’s Stone” and “St. Guthlak’s Cross.” The former of these was one of the four boundary stones of “the halidome” of the Abbey, and may still be found by the side of the Welland; the broken shaft of the latter, with curious lettering thereon, is also to be seen at Crowland. According to learned antiquaries the lettering forms the following Latin inscription:--“_Aio hanc petram Guthlacvs habet sibi metam._”