Norman Cross--A Norman-French inscription--A re-headed statue--The
friendliness of the road--The art of being delightful--The turnpike
roads in their glory--Bits for the curious--A story of the
stocks--“Wansford in England”--Romance and reality--The glamour of
art--“The finest street between London and Edinburgh”--Ancient
“Callises”--A historic inn--Windows that have tales to tell.
Leaving Stilton we had a pleasant stretch of rural country of the
restful, home-like, friendly order, but none the less beautiful because
of an unambitious type. It was a constant delight to us to search for,
and to discover what was most beautiful in the everyday English country
we passed through; the charm of such quiet scenery is that it never
palls nor becomes wearisome with familiarity, as more pretentious
landscapes often do. Far fresher and more enjoyable was it, to us, to
wander leisurely about rural England out of the well-beaten tourist
track than to traverse a district famous for its scenery, belauded by
guide-books, and crowded by excursionists, where beforehand you know
almost exactly what to expect and where therefore pleasant surprises, or
discoveries, are rare; but, on the other hand, by anticipating too much,
disappointment often awaits one.
[Sidenote: _A MATTER OF SENTIMENT_]
At Norman Cross, a tiny hamlet with a suggestive name, situated about a
mile on our way out of Stilton, there are the slight remains of the
colony of barracks that were erected in the last century, wherein some
thousands of French prisoners were confined during the Napoleonic wars.
From Norman Cross we drove merrily along until we came to the pretty
village of Water Newton, pleasantly situated by the side of the river
Nen, or Nene,--for I find it spelt both ways on my map. Here the
time-mellowed church, placed rather in a hollow a meadow’s length away
from the road, attracted our attention, though why it especially did so
I hardly know, for there was apparently nothing particularly noteworthy
about it, at least not more so than any one of the other country fanes
we had passed unregarded by that day. Moreover, our tastes for the
moment did not incline to things ecclesiastical. But it is a fact, that
now and then, without any definable cause, a certain spot, or place,
will excite one’s interest and arouse within one a strong desire to stop
and explore it: such sentimental, but very real, feelings defy all
reasoning; they exist but cannot be explained or reduced to an argument.
So half-involuntarily we pulled up here. “We must see that old church,”
we exclaimed, though wherefore the compulsion we did not inquire of
ourselves; but we went, in spite of the fact that it was getting late
and that we had some miles more to accomplish before we reached
Stamford, our night’s destination. In the churchyard we noticed an
ancient stone coffin and lid, but we had seen many such stone coffins
and lids before, so that these did not specially appeal to us. Then
walking round the building, in search of any object of interest, we
happened to glance at the tower, and on its west side we espied, about a
third of the way up, a recess with a carved stone figure of a man
standing therein, the hands of which were clasped as though in prayer.
This at once excited our curiosity. On looking further we observed an
inscription below the figure apparently in Norman-French, but the
lettering was so much defaced that it was difficult to decipher, a
difficulty increased by the distance we were away from it; nevertheless,
nothing daunted, we boldly made the attempt, and whilst puzzling over
the spelling without, be it confessed, making much progress, the rector
fortunately discovered us and kindly came to our aid. Existence is
doubtless somewhat uneventful in this quiet spot, and possibly he was
not averse to the scarce luxury of a chat with a stranger. I must say it
seems to me that the life many of our refined and educated clergy lead
in remote, out-of-the-way rural districts, is not altogether an enviable
one, for, as a rule, the society of such is sadly restricted, and the
conversational powers of the farmers and agricultural labourers are apt
to be somewhat limited, not to say monotonous. Arcadia has its delights,
but they are not academical. The chief charms of ruralism to some people
are to be found second-hand in “open-air” books! Therein lies the
difference between the genuine and the pseudo Nature lover.
[Sidenote: _AN ANCIENT INSCRIPTION_]
The church had been restored recently, so the rector informed us, and by
aid of a ladder the inscription had been deciphered as follows:--
VOVS : KE : PAR
ISSI : PASSEZ
PVR : LE : ALME
TOMAS : PVR
DEN : PRIEZ
which I afterwards put into English thus, though I do not profess to be
a Norman-French scholar, but in this case the translation seems
manifest:--You that pass by here pray for the soul of Thomas Purden.
This truly sounds rather like a command than begging a favour of a
stranger, still I trust that this Thomas Purden had his demands amply
gratified, and I further trust that his soul has benefited thereby--but
what of the countless number of souls of other poor folk, equally dear
to them, who had neither money nor influence to cause such an entreaty
to be made public thus for their benefit? It was a hard faith that
seemed to make it thus easier “for a rich man to enter the kingdom of
God” than for a poor man, and calls to mind the Puritans’ dictum that
Purgatory was invented to enrich the priest!
Who this Thomas Purden was the rector could not say, possibly now no one
can: he may have been the founder of the church, though in that case one
would have expected to find this memorial of him in the chancel,
according to the prevailing custom; it appears to me more probable,
therefore, that he was the builder of the tower, or possibly a
benefactor of the church; but this is pure conjecture on my part, and
conjectures must be taken for what they are worth.
The head of the statue, we were informed, was not the original one,
which had decayed away or had been broken off, so that at the time of
the restoration of the church the figure was headless: “However,” we
were informed, “the builder, curiously enough, had some old carved stone
heads knocking about his yard, and he fitted on one of these in place of
the missing one”! Thus is the lot of the future antiquary made hard: but
this is not so blameworthy as an instance that came under my notice on a
previous tour, when I discovered that a mason had inserted an ancient
dated stone over the porch of an old house he had been called in to
repair, solely because he had it on hand and thought it looked
ornamental there! This was enough to deceive the very archæological
elect! I have to confess that the new head supplied to Master Thomas
Purden appeared to be, from our point of view below, a good “ready-made”
fit; but therein lies the greater pitfall for the future antiquary
aforementioned.
“Now,” exclaimed the rector, “you will doubtless wonder why the figure
with such an appeal to the public was placed on the side of the tower
facing the meadows, and not on the side facing the road.” As a matter of
fact this detail had not occurred to us; one cannot think of
everything--though we tried to look surprised at the fact--then the
rector continued, apparently pleased by our perspicacity: “Well,
formerly the road went past the west front of the tower, close under it
indeed, and crossed the river by a ford; if you look along the fields
you can see traces of it even now.” So we looked and imagined we could
see the traces in question, but our eyes, naturally, were not so
accustomed to make them out as those of our informant. Then the rector,
seeing the manifest interest we took in his church, most courteously
devoted himself to us, and good-naturedly acted the part of guide, for
which attentive civility we felt duly grateful. But that was not all,
for after we had finished our inspection of the building, he, with
thoughtful kindness, invited us into his snug rectory, hospitably intent
on making us partake of afternoon tea; and this was by no means a
solitary occasion of such a kindness shown to us--pressed upon us would
be the more exact expression; utter strangers travelling by road!
[Sidenote: _THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS_]
Indeed, during our tour, the difficulty that frequently presented itself
to us when we did not wish to dally on the way was how we could
gracefully decline the many proffered invitations of a similar nature
without appearing to be rude. At one time we thought that probably the
sight of the dog-cart, as showing that we were presumably respectable
wayfarers, might have had something to do with the continued courtesies
we received, for in almost every stranger we met we seemed to find a
friend; but when touring alone on a walking tour, with only a knapsack
strapped on my back, I have experienced the same kindly treatment, often
too when in a dust-stained condition. On one well-remembered occasion
during the shooting season, when trespassing afoot across some moors in
search of a short cut, I came suddenly upon the owner of the land with
his party lunching; the owner was inclined to be indignant with me at
first, but an apology for my inexcusable trespass quietly expressed was
followed by a few minutes’ conversation, which ended in my being invited
to join the lunching party, no refusal being permitted. “We insist upon
your joining us as a penalty for your trespassing,” was the jovial
manner in which the invitation was enforced, and I accepted the
inevitable without further demur!
After all the world is much as we make it; smile on it and it returns
your smiles, frown and it frowns back again, greet it good-naturedly and
it will return your greeting in kind. As Seneca says, “He that would
make his travels delightful must first make himself delightful.” And to
do this he should cultivate a pleasant manner; it costs so little and
returns so much, obtaining favours for which money would not avail, and
generally smoothing wonderfully the way of the wanderer. Thus Emerson
sings--
What boots it thy virtue?
What profit thy parts?
The one thing thou lackest,
The art of all arts.
The only credential,
Passport to success,
Opens castles and parlours,--
Address, man, address.
And Emerson knew!
During our past wanderings on wheels we have made numerous friends, and
have received many kind invitations to spend a time at their homes, and
in the course of this journey we received three such invitations, all
from perfect strangers; only one of which we were enabled to accept, and
in that case a most hearty welcome was extended to us. Such generous
hospitality shown, which included stabling our horses, such a manifest
anxiety evinced to make our short stay as enjoyable as possible, that
mere thanks seemed a wholly insufficient return.
But to return to Water Newton church, after this digression and short
sermon on civility which my readers are fully licensed to skip, the
rector called our attention to the painstaking manner in which the tower
was constructed: “All of ashlar work and scarcely any mortar, or cement,
being used. The top of the tower has one feature about it that tells its
own story; as you will see, a quantity of old Norman tooth-moulding has
been employed in the window arches, manifestly preserved from an earlier
building, for the joints of the ornamentations do not come evenly
together; thus plainly proving resetting. On the farther and fourth side
of the tower that is less seen the windows have none of this moulding,
but are simply finished off in unadorned stone-work, the builders having
presumably used up all the old carving in the more prominent positions.”
[Sidenote: _A CURIOUS NAME_]
Then entering the church the rector pointed out to us the name of
“Original Jackson” cut in a flat tombstone on the floor. The Christian
name of “Original” being curious and, as far as I know, unique. At one
time we learnt that there had been a dove-cote in the tower, or rather a
portion of it formed a dove-cote of considerable size, and was doubtless
a source of profit to the pre-Reformation clergy. At the foot of the
tower is the old vestry door, and a very narrow one it is, so narrow
indeed that, the story goes, a former priest of goodly proportions was
unable to pass through it; therefore, as the door could not be
conveniently altered, a new vestry with an ampler means of approach had
to be devised. In a window recess in the south aisle is a recumbent
stone effigy, much mutilated and cracked; the feet of this rest upon a
lion, apparently showing the figure, which is under lifesize, to be
intended to represent a man, yet the features of the head with its long
hair suggest a woman. We understood that this effigy was the cause of
considerable dispute amongst antiquaries as to whether it were
representative of a knight or a dame. We decided in favour of the lady.
The church, we were informed, “is dedicated to St. Remigius, an almost
unique dedication in England.”
Then adjourning to the rectory we were shown there some very interesting
specimens of Roman pottery and other ancient relics that the rector
himself had found in a gravel-pit near by, at a spot where an old Roman
encampment once had been. To show how times have changed we were told
that two old houses between the rectory and
[Sidenote: _SHOEING CATTLE!_]
the road were formerly small but flourishing inns; and that an old
farmer, aged eighty-three, who lived in an ivy-clad farmhouse a little
farther on our way, well remembers sixteen mail-coaches passing Water
Newton in the day: this was besides the ordinary non-mail-coaches, of
which there were a number. Another reminder of other days and other
ways, in the shape of a bygone custom quite novel to us, we gleaned from
an old gaffer we met on the way. From him we learnt that in the
pre-railway days, when the cattle were driven along the Great North Road
from Scotland to the London markets, the animals were actually shod like
horses so that their hoofs might stand the long journey on the hard
highway. Several blacksmiths on the road moreover, we were given to
understand, made a special business of shoeing such cattle apart from
shoeing horses. So one travels and picks up curious bits of information.
One man we saw gathering nettles assured us that, boiled, they made a
delicious green vegetable, besides purifying the blood and being a cure
for boils and the rheumatics. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “I should not wonder
some day, when their virtues are discovered, to find rich people growing
them in their gardens instead of spinach and the like. Nettles be a
luxury. Now, if ever you suffers from the rheumatics mind you tries
nettles, they beat all the doctor’s medicine; they just do.” And we
promised to think the matter over. The idea of any one ever growing
crops of nettles in their kitchen-gardens amused us. Still the weed,
vegetable I mean, may have hidden virtues I wot not of; and possibly it
is not altogether wise to dismiss as absolute nonsense every item of
country folk-lore one comes upon. I always jot such sayings down in my
note-book, and shall soon have quite a collection of them. I remember
one simple remedy that a farmer’s wife told me of when a youngster,
which, boy-like, I at once tried--and actually found it effectual! Some
of the countryfolk’s cures, however, may be considered worse than the
disease. Here, for instance, is one for baldness that I have not tested:
“Rub well the bald parts with a fresh onion just cut, twice a day, for
ten minutes at a time at least; and you must never miss a rubbing till
the hair begins to grow again”!
Leaving Water Newton we drove on through a level country, passing in
about a mile or so some ancient stocks and a whipping-post on a grassy
corner by the roadside; these had been painted manifestly to preserve
them as a curiosity. Some day, like ducking-stools and scolds’ gags,
they will possibly only be found in a museum. According to a paragraph
in a local paper that I extracted the gist of on the journey, the last
time that a man was condemned to the stocks in England was at the
village of Newbold-on-Avon in Warwickshire late in this century. The man
in question was a confirmed drunkard, and the magistrates fined him 7s.
6d. with the option of being placed in the stocks: the drunkard chose
the stocks which he well knew were decayed and unfit for use; so they
were forthwith repaired at some expense, which being done the man
suddenly found the money for the fine and so
[Sidenote: _LOCAL PAPERS_]
escaped the indignity of the stocks, and the doubtful honour of being
the last person to be legally confined therein. When all else fails in
the evenings at country inns, the local papers often afford much
entertainment combined with information. The local antiquaries
occasionally write to them upon matters of interest in the
neighbourhood; and such communications are frequently well worth
reading, for by perusing them the traveller out of the beaten track may
obtain intelligence of old-time relics and quaint rural customs that he
would otherwise probably never hear of, and such things are well worth
knowing and preserving.
Wansford, the next village we came to, pleased us by its picturesqueness
and its pleasant situation on the banks of the Nene, a wide and
fishful-looking stream whose name we did not even know before we
undertook this tour; so that driving across country teaches one a good
deal about the geography of one’s own land, besides affording the road
wanderer an intimate knowledge of it, never obtainable from the railway.
Wansford is built of stone and is a charming specimen of an old English
village; its houses and cottages strike the eye as being substantial,
comfortable, and enduring; for you cannot well build meanly with stone.
One large house in the village street, large enough to deserve the
often-misappropriated term of mansion, with its stone-slab, overhanging
roof, and strong stacks of chimneys, especially pleased us; neither
roof, wall, nor window seemed as though any one of them would need
repairs for long years: possibly this building was originally a fine
old coaching inn, for it stood close upon the roadway. Oh! the comfort
of a well-built home like this, with a roof fit to weather the storms of
centuries, and thick walls, so charmingly warm in winter and so
delightfully cool in summer, wherein you may dwell in peace, and bills
for repairs are almost an unknown thing.
The church here is a box-like structure, small, primitive, and ugly, and
we merely went to view it because the rector at Water Newton had told us
that the ancient font thereof was curious; it being carved round with
men fighting--scarcely an appropriate ornamentation for a font in a
Christian church though, one would imagine! Quite in keeping with the
rude interior of this tiny fane is the wooden gallery at one end, with
the most suitable inscription:--
This Loft Erected
January 1st, 1804.
I have only to add that it is an excellent example of the Churchwarden
era of architecture, and you seldom find a structure of the period more
ugly.
At Wansford we crossed the river Nene on a fine old stone bridge of
thirteen arches, if we counted them aright: a solid bit of building
pleasing to look upon and making a pretty picture from the meadows below
with the clustering, uneven roofs of the village for a background. Over
the centre arch let in the wall we noticed a stone inscribed P. M. 1577.
Wansford is curiously called locally “Wansford in England” and has been
so called for generations. In my copy of _Drunken Barnaby’s four
journeys to the North of England_, edition of 1778, I find the following
lines:--
Thence to Wansforth-brigs ...
* * * * *
On a haycock sleeping soundly,
Th’ River rose and took me roundly
Down the Current: People cry’d
Sleeping down the stream I hy’d:
_Where away_, quoth they, _from Greenland?
No; from Wansforth brigs in England._
[Sidenote: _A GREAT ARCHITECT_]
Now we hastened along to “Stamford town,” some six miles farther on,
where we proposed to spend the night. Just before we reached our
destination we passed to our right Burleigh park and house. Of the
latter we had a good view: a splendid pile it is, stately but not too
stately, dignified yet homelike, it combines picturesqueness with
grandeur--a rare and difficult achievement for any architect and one for
which Vanbrugh strove in vain; the more merit therefore to the famous
John Thorpe who designed Burleigh House, in my humble opinion the
greatest of English architects; his works speak his praises. The man who
originated the Elizabethan style of architecture was no ordinary genius!
Thorpe built pictures, he was never commonplace.
My readers will remember Tennyson’s well-known lines about the “Lord of
Burleigh” and his village spouse; unfortunately, like the charming story
of Dorothy Vernon’s elopement, the romance loses much of its gilt by
too critical an examination. The lovely and loving Countess was the
Lord’s second wife, he having married another lady from whom he was
divorced. After the separation, acting upon the advice of his uncle, and
having lost all his own fortune, he retired into the country and
eventually took lodgings with a farmer named Thomas Hoggins at Bolas in
Shropshire, giving himself out to be a certain Mr. Jones, not an
uncommon name. Here “Mr. Jones,” possibly finding time hanging heavily
on his hands, promptly made love to his landlord’s daughter Sarah, the
village beauty, and eventually married her. It was not till after the
death of his uncle that he became “Lord of Burleigh,” all of which is a
matter of history. It was after this event, when he succeeded to the
Earldom and estates, that his rank was revealed, much in the romantic
manner that Tennyson relates. Then the new “Lord of Burleigh” took his
innocent and loving wife by easy stages to her home, pointing out all
the country sights and mansions on the way, she dreaming all the while
of the little cottage he so long had promised her--
All he shows her makes him dearer:
Evermore she seems to gaze
On that cottage growing nearer,
Where they twain will spend their days.
* * * * *
Thus her heart rejoices greatly,
Till a gateway she discerns
With armorial bearings stately,
And beneath the gate she turns;
Sees a mansion more majestic
Than all those she saw before:
Many a gallant gay domestic
Bows before him at the door.
And they speak in gentle murmur,
When they answer to his call,
While he treads with footstep firmer,
Leading on from hall to hall.
And, while now she wonders blindly,
Nor the meaning can divine,
Proudly turns he round and kindly,
“All of this is mine and thine.”
[Sidenote: _A PICTURESQUE TOWNSCAPE_]
Driving into Stamford, a place we had never visited before, we were
struck by the familiarity of the townscape presented to us; it seemed to
greet us like an old friend, whose face we had often seen. The square
towers, the tall tapering spires, with the gable-fronted,
mullion-windowed old houses, and the picturesque way that these towers,
steeples, and old-fashioned houses were grouped and contrasted had a
strangely well-known look--yet how could this be if we had not beheld
them before? Then we suddenly solved the promising mystery by
remembering that it was Turner’s engraved drawing of Stamford in his
“England and Wales” series of views that had brought the prospect to
mind. In this case--judging by our recollection of the engraving, a
great favourite, so strongly impressed upon us--Turner has been more
than usually topographically faithful: he appears to have taken very
little, if any, liberty with the buildings or the composition of the
subject--possibly because the natural grouping is so good, that art
could not, for the nonce, improve picturesquely upon fact. For it is not
the province of true art to be realistic, but to be poetic; the painter
is not a mere transcriber, but a translator. There is such a thing as
pictorial poetry; the pencil can, and should, be employed sincerely yet
romantically. Observe, in this very drawing of Stamford, how Turner,
whilst not departing one whit from the truth, has by the perfectly
possible, yet wonderful, sky-scape he has introduced, with the effective
play of light and shade that would be caused thereby, strong yet not
forced, and the happy arrangement of figures and the old coach in the
foreground, added the grace of poetry to the natural charms of the
ordinary street scene. The photograph can give us hard facts and precise
details, enough and to spare, yet somehow to the artistic soul the
finest photographs have a want, they are purely mechanical, soulless,
and unromantic. They lack the glamour of the painter’s vision, who gives
us the gold and is blind to the dross, he looks for the beautiful and
finds it; so he brightens his own life and those of others, and his work
is not in vain!
Scott, who often travelled by this famous Great North Road, described
St. Mary’s Hill at Stamford as being “the finest street between London
and Edinburgh,” and surely Scott ought to know! To use an artist’s slang
expression of a good subject “it takes a lot of beating.” Besides being
beautiful, Stamford is one of the most interesting towns in England,
with quite a character of its own; it is essentially individual, and
therein lies its special charm: to me it is passing strange that such a
picturesque and quaint old town should be so
[Sidenote: _AN ERST UNIVERSITY TOWN_]
neglected by the tourist, and the few who do find their way thither
appear to come attracted solely by the fame of Burleigh House, one of
the “show” mansions of the country, merely treating old-world Stamford,
with all its wealth of antiquarian and archæological interest, as a
point of departure and arrival. For Stamford--whose name is derived we
were told from “Stone-ford,” as that of Oxford is from “Ox-ford” over
the Isis--was erst a university town of renown whose splendid colleges
rivalled both those of Oxford and Cambridge, and even at one period
threatened to supersede them, and probably would have done so but for
powerful and interested political intrigues. Of these ancient colleges
there are some small but interesting remains. Spenser in his _Faerie
Queene_ thus alludes to the town:--
Stamford, though now homely hid,
Then shone in learning more than ever did
Cambridge or Oxford, England’s goodly beams.
But besides the remains of its ancient colleges, Stamford possesses
several fine old churches of exceptional interest, a number of quaint
old hospitals, or “callises” as they are locally called--a term derived,
we were informed by a Stamford antiquary we met by chance, from the
famous wool merchants of “the Staple of Calais” who first founded them
here--the important ruins of St. Leonard’s Priory, crumbling old
gateways, bits of Norman arches, countless ancient houses of varied
character, and quaint odds and ends of architecture scattered about.
At Stamford we patronised the ancient and historic “George Inn,” that
still stands where it did of yore--an inn which has entertained
generations of wayfarers of various degrees from king to highwayman;
and, as in the past, opens its doors to the latter-day traveller, who,
however, seldom arrives by road. It was quite in keeping with the old
traditions of the place that we should drive into its ancient and
spacious courtyard and hand our horses over to the ostler’s charge,
whilst we two dust-stained travellers, having seen our baggage taken out
of the dog-cart, should follow it indoors, where the landlord stood
ready to welcome us, just as former landlords on the self-same spot
might have welcomed former travellers posting across country. During the
month of August 1645, Charles I. slept a night here on his way south
from Newark; it was Scott’s favourite halting-place on his many journeys
to and from London--and many other notables, of whom the list is long,
have feasted and slept beneath the sign of the “George” at Stamford.
“Walls have ears,” says the old familiar proverb: would that the walls
of the “George” had tongues to tell us something of the people who have
rested and feasted within its ancient chambers, to repeat for our
benefit the unrecorded sayings, witticisms, stories of strange
adventures on the king’s highway, and aught else of interest that may
have passed their lips. Marvellous men were some of those ancestors of
ours, who would sit outside a coach all day, and sit up half the night
consuming their three bottles of port, yet rise in the morning
headacheless and proceed with their journey smiling. There must be some
wonderful recuperative virtue about life in the open air, otherwise they
could hardly have led the life they did. Up early, and to bed late, with
port, or punch, nearly every night, and sometimes both--and yet we have
no record of their complaining of dyspepsia! Again I repeat they were
marvellous men; peace be to their ashes.
[Sidenote: _RECORDS ON GLASS_]
In many a coaching inn they have left mementoes of themselves by
scratching their names with dates, and sometimes with added verses, on
the window panes of the rooms: these always deeply interest and appeal
to me; they tell so little and so much! The mere scratches of a diamond
on the fragile glass have been preserved all those years, they look so
fresh they might have been done only a month ago. Nowadays it is only
the “‘Arrys” who are supposed to do this sort of thing, but in the olden
times even notable personages did not deem it beneath their dignity thus
to record their names. On the window of the room in which Shakespeare
was born at Stratford-on-Avon may be found the genuine signature of the
“Wizard of the North,” in company with those of other famed and unfamed
men and women. Where walls are silent, windows sometimes speak! I have
noted dates on these of nearly two centuries ago; the names of the
writers being thus unwittingly preserved whilst perchance they have
weathered away from their tombstones. Such records as the following
which I select haphazard from my note-book are interesting:--“Peter
Lewis 1735. Weather-bound,” or “G. L. stopped on the heath by three
men,” or again, “T. Lawes, 1765. Flying machine broken down, Vile
roades.” Suggestive comments that one can enlarge and romance upon. Now
and then these old-time travellers instead of leaving their names behind
them indulged their artistic propensities by drawing, more or less
roughly, representations of coats-of-arms, and crests, or else gibbets,
highwaymen, and such like. These old records on glass are an interesting
study, and are mostly to be found on bedroom windows; but panes get
broken in time, or destroyed during alterations, or the old houses
themselves get improved away, so these reminders of past days and
changed conditions of life and travel gradually grow fewer: it is
therefore wise of the curious to make note of them when they can.
In the coffee-room of the “George” we met a pleasant company consisting
of three belated cyclists, and with them we chatted of roads, of
scenery, and many things besides till a late hour, when we retired to
rest and found that we had allotted to us a large front bedroom. We
could not help wondering how many other travellers, and who they might
have been, the same chamber had sheltered since the inn was first
established in the years gone by. Probably--it was even more than
probable--Scott himself may have slept in the very chamber we occupied.
Verily a glamour of the long ago, a past presence, seems to hang over
this ancient and historic hostelry! It is haunted with memories!