A picturesque ruin--Round about Stamford--Browne’s “Callis”--A chat
with an antiquary--A quaint interior--“Bull-running”--A relic of a
destroyed college--An old Carmelite gateway--A freak of
Nature--Where Charles I. last slept as a free man--A storied
ceiling--A gleaner’s bell--St. Leonard’s Priory--Tennyson’s
county--In time of vexation--A
flood--Hiding-holes--Lost!--Memorials of the past.
Early in the morning we started out to explore the town; first, however,
we found our way to Wothorpe a short mile off, from whence there is a
fine view of Stamford. At Wothorpe are the picturesque ruins of a small
mansion built by the first Earl of Exeter: “to retire out of the dust,”
as he playfully remarked, “whilst his great house at Burleigh was
a-sweeping.” The deserted and time-rent mansion is finely built of
carefully squared stones and has four towers one at each corner, square
at the base, but octagonal at the top; these towers, judging from an old
print we saw in a shop window at Stamford, were formerly capped by
shaped stone roofs, which in turn were surmounted by great weathercocks:
the towers when complete must have been quite a feature in the
structure, and have given it a special character--a touch of quaintness
that is always so charming and attractive in a building. The ruins are
weather-toned and ivy-grown and make a very pretty picture, though only
the outer crumbling walls remain. Wothorpe has arrived at such a
pathetic state of decay as to be almost picturesquely perfect, and
pleads to be admired! Man has ruined it, but nature left to work her own
sweet will has beautified it, for she has draped it with greenery, has
tinted its stones, and broken up its rigid symmetry. It is a sad thought
that a building should be more beautiful in ruin than in its perfect
state, but, as Byron says,
there is a power
And magic in the ruin’d battlement,
For which the palace of the present hour
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.
From this spot we retraced our steps to Stamford, and wandering
desultorily about the town eventually came upon Browne’s Hospital, Bede
House, or Callis; a most interesting old building, the exterior of which
suggested to us a quaint interior, so we determined to obtain a glimpse
of the latter, if possible. As we were ascending the steps to inquire if
the place were shown we encountered a gentleman coming down, whom
instinctively we took to be an antiquary; though why we should have
jumped at such a conclusion it would be hard to say; and oddly enough it
turned out that we were correct in our conjectures, so we ventured to
ask him whether he thought we should be able to obtain admittance to the
building. There is nothing lost in this world by seizing opportunities
and asking polite questions, for oftentimes the traveller gains
[Sidenote: _“A BROTHER LUNATIC!”_]
much thereby. In this case we were well rewarded for making so simple an
inquiry, for the stranger, noting the interest we took in the fine old
building, appeared forthwith to take an interest in us, and thereupon
offered to show us over it himself--a civil word how profitable it
sometimes is!--he even appeared to enjoy his self-imposed task of doing
duty as a guide. Possibly it pleased him to have a talk with a
sympathetic soul as it did another antiquary we met later on, who on
parting with us jokingly remarked: “It has been a treat to exchange
views with a brother lunatic!” so bearing this in mind we chatted with
our new friend about things old, of bygone times, and of
antiquarian-lore galore--for he was a man whose life seemed in the past,
his conversation gave one the impression that he was born at least a
century too late for his own pleasure. The result of our discourse was
that on leaving the hospital we had so gained his good-will that he
further offered to show us something of the town, “As strangers might
readily miss so much, and I should like to point out to you a few of the
chief objects of interest”; then he added, “It will not be any trouble
to me; I’ve nothing particular to do this morning.” We were only too
glad to accept his kind aid, and greatly did we enjoy our exploration of
Stamford under his helpful guidance.
But to “hark back” a little. Upon entering the old hospital our
attention was called to the carved stone figure of the founder over the
doorway, where he is shown holding a plan of the building in his hands.
Then we were led into a large, long hall having a heavy oak-beamed
ceiling. Here originally (I am now quoting from the notes I made on the
spot of what we were told) the poor inmates slept in cubicles, access to
which was gained by a gangway down the centre of the hall. Now that the
old folk have sleeping accommodation in another portion of the hospital,
the floor has been tiled, and the tiles are so laid as to show the
shape, size, and plan of the cubicles. A very excellent idea--if changes
must be made. Some ancient stained glass in a window here has “the
founder’s chief crest” painted thereon, “for the founder’s family had
the right to use two crests; only two other families in England having
this right.” The “chief crest” is a phœnix, it is placed over a
coat-of-arms on which three teasels are shown (these teasels puzzled us
until our friend explained what they were). The motto given is “_X me
sped_,” “Christ me speed,” we Anglicised it. An old “gridiron” table of
the time of Charles I. stood, when we were there, in the centre of the
hall; the ends of this draw out to extend it--an idea that the modern
furniture manufacturer might well consider as a possible improvement
upon the usual troublesome leaves and screw, nor prize it the less
because so long invented. I have a table made in a similar fashion and
find it most useful; two rings forming handles to pull out the ends.
Then we came to the chapel, divided from the hall by a carved oak
screen; all the inmates are compelled to attend service here twice a
day. The large chapel window, with a high transom, is filled
[Sidenote: _RELICS OF THE PAST_]
with fine old stained glass, on a bit of which we discerned the date
1515. The bench-ends are good. As well as these we had pointed out to us
in its original position the pre-Reformation altar-stone, distinguished
by the usual five crosses upon it. At one side of the altar was an
ancient “cope-chair, in this the priest sat down, his cope covering the
chair, and from it he blessed the congregation. There were formerly two
of these chairs, but one was stolen”! Then we were shown a rare old
wooden alms-box of the fifteenth century; this was bound round with
iron.
In the quaint old audit room over the hall, where we went next, painted
on a wooden panel set in the centre end of the wall we found the
following ancient inscription, commencing in Latin and ending in
English:--
Haec Domus Eleemosynaria fundata
Fuit a Guilielmo Browne
Anno Do[=n]i 1495. Anno Regio Henrici
VII Decimo
This structure new contains twelve habitations
Which shall remain for future generations
For old and poore, for weake and men unhealthy.
This blessed house was founded not for wealthy.
Hee that endowed for aye and this house builded.
By this good act hath to sinne pardon yielded.
The honour of the country and this towne
Alas now dead his name was William Browne.
Be it an house of prayer and to diuine
Duties devoted else not called mine.
Ten old men and two old women are boarded and cared for here, we learnt;
the women having to act as nurses if required. Outside the building
away from the road is a very picturesque and quiet courtyard with
cloisters; these seem verily to enclose an old-world atmosphere, a calm
that is of another century. The wall-girt stillness, the profound peace
of the place made so great an impression on us that for the moment the
throbbing and excited nineteenth century seemed ages removed, as though
the present were a fevered dream and only existed in our imagination. So
do certain spots enthral one with the sentiment of the far-away both in
time and space! From here there is a view to be had of a gable end of
the founder’s house; the greater part of the building having been pulled
down, and only this small portion remaining.
The broad street outside Browne’s “Callis” was, we were told, the
opening scene of the bull-running. Most towns in past days, as is well
known, indulged in the “gentle sport” of bull-baiting, but from time
immemorial in Stamford bull-running took its place as an institution
peculiar to the town. The bull-running, we were told, was carried on,
more or less, in the following fashion. Early in the morning of the day
devoted to the “gentle sport” a bell-man went round to warn all people
to shut their shops, doors, gates, etc., then afterwards at a certain
hour a wild bull, the wilder the better, was let loose into the streets
and then the sport began. The populace, men, women, and boys, ran after
the bull, armed with cudgels, with which they struck it and goaded it to
fury; all the dogs of the town, needless to say, joining in the
[Sidenote: _AN ANCIENT SPORT_]
sport and adding to the medley. By evening if the bull were not killed,
or driven into the river and perchance drowned, he was despatched by an
axe. Men occasionally of course got tossed, or gored, during these
disgusting and lively proceedings, and others were injured in various
ways: indeed it seems to have been very much like a Spanish bull-fight
vulgarised. This sport continued till about the year 1838. I presume
that there was no “Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals”
then; or is it that cruelty does not count when sport comes in? for as a
supporter of the Society once laid down the law to me dogmatically thus:
“It’s cruelty to thrash a horse, even if he be vicious, but it’s not
cruelty to hunt a fox or a hare, as that is sport; so we never interfere
with hunting: neither is bull-fighting cruel, for that is a sport.”
Well, my favourite sport is fly-fishing, and I am glad to learn that it
is not a cruel one, as “fish have no feelings.” But how about the boy
who impales a worm on a hook: has the worm conveniently “no feelings”
too? Shall we ever have a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Reptiles?
The origin of the Stamford bull-running appears to be lost in the mists
of antiquity; of course where history fails legend must step in, and
according to legend the sport began thus:--Some time in the thirteenth
century (delightfully vague date! why not openly “once upon a time”?) a
wild bull got out of the meadows where it was grazing near the town and
rushed into the streets; it was chased by the populace, and chased by
dogs, and eventually driven into the river and drowned, after affording
much entertainment to the townsfolk; thereupon the bull-running was
established as a sport. The legend does not sound so improbable as some
legends do, but whether based on fact or not I cannot say. It is only
for me to repeat stories as they come to my ear.
In the same street outside Browne’s “Callis,” we further learnt, the old
market cross stood which was taken down about the year 1790. According
to ancient engravings it appears to have been a structure with a tall
stone shaft in the centre, surmounted by a cross which was duly knocked
off by the Puritans; from this central shaft a roof extended to a number
of columns around, thus forming a shelter for the market folk. This
market cross is not to be confounded with a Queen Eleanor’s Cross that
stood beyond the Scot-Gate about half a mile from Stamford on the old
York and Edinburgh road. A glorious example, this latter must have been,
of one of these picturesque crosses erected in pious memory of a loved
consort, judging at least from a description of it we observed quoted in
a local guide-book we found in our hotel, which runs thus:--“A vision of
beauty, glorious with its aggregate of buttresses and niches and diaper,
and above all with the statues of Eleanor and Edward; the most beautiful
of that or any age. Shame to those savages in the Great Rebellion who
swept away the very foundations of it! But the cry of superstition hunts
down such things as these a great deal faster than age can despatch
them.”
[Sidenote: _TRADITIONS_]
Next our guide took us to the site of Brasenose College--mostly pulled
down in the seventeenth century by the corporation--but the outer wall
and an arched stone gateway still remain. On the gate here was a quaint
and ancient knocker, judged by antiquaries to be of the fourteenth
century; this was formed of a lion’s head in beaten brass holding a ring
in his mouth; we understood that it had left the town, a fact to be
regretted. It is singular that there should have been a college here of
the curious name of Brasenose, as well as the one at Oxford. There is
indeed a tradition that the veritable nose that surmounts the gateway at
Oxford came from the Stamford college, and was brought by the students
when compelled to return to their former university town. Another
tradition professes to give the origin of the peculiar name, stating it
to be derived from _brasen-hus_, or _hws_, a brew-house, it being said
that one was attached to the college--but the derivation, though just
possible, is more ingenious than convincing.
Next we were taken to see the crumbling gateway of the ancient Carmelite
Friary; this had three niches for statues above, but is more interesting
to antiquaries than to the lovers of the picturesque; it now forms the
approach to the Infirmary. Then we visited the three chief churches,
noting in St. Martin’s the magnificent altar-tomb--gorgeous with colour
and gilt, but rather dusty when we were there--of Queen Elizabeth’s Lord
Treasurer, whereon he is represented in recumbent effigy clad in
elaborately adorned armour. Men dressed their parts in those days!
Space will not permit a detailed description of these historic fanes;
indeed, to do Stamford justice would take at least several chapters, and
I have not even one to spare!
Next our wanderings led us into an old graveyard to see the last
resting-place of a famous Stamford native, whose size was his fame! His
tombstone inscription tells its own story without any further comment of
mine, and thus it runs:--
In Remembrance of
That Prodigy in Nature
DANIEL LAMBERT
who was possessed of
An exalted and convivial mind
And in personal greatness
Had no Competitor
He measured three feet one inch round the leg
Nine feet four inches round the body
And Weighed
Fifty-two stone Eleven pounds!
He departed this life
On the 21st of June
1803
Aged 39 years.
“An exalted and convivial mind” is good, it is a phrase worth noting.
Our good-natured guide informed us that after the death of this worthy
citizen his stockings were kept for many years hung up in a room of one
of the inns as a curiosity, and that he distinctly remembered being
taken there by his father when a boy, and being placed inside one of the
stockings.
After this in a different part of the town we had
[Sidenote: _A HUNTED KING!_]
pointed out to us “Barn Hill House,” an old gray stone building more
interesting historically than architecturally, for it was within its
walls that Charles I. slept his last night “as a free man.” He arrived
there disguised as a servant, and entered by the back-door--a hunted
king! Such are the chances and changes of fate: the ruler of a kingdom
coming stealthily in by a back-door, and seeking shelter and safety in
the house of a humble subject, clad in the lowly garb of a serving-man!
But I am moralising, a thing I dislike when others do it! possibly
through having an overdose thereof when I was a boy, for almost every
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
[Illustration: A QUIET COUNTRY ROAD.]
[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._”