Spalding--“Ye Olde White Horse Inne”--An ancient hall and quaint
garden--Epitaph-hunting--A signboard joke--Across the Fens--A
strange world--Storm and sunshine--An awkward
predicament--Brown--Birthplace of Hereward the Wake--A medieval
railway station!--Tombstone verses.
We determined that we would devote the next morning to leisurely
exploring Spalding, armed with sketch-book and camera, for the ancient
town promised, from the glance we had of it whilst driving in, to
provide plenty of picturesque and quaint material for both pencil and
lens.
We had not to search long for a subject, for in less than five minutes
we came upon a tempting architectural bit in the shape of a past-time
inn, with a thatched roof, high gables, and dormer windows, whose
swinging signboard proclaimed it to be “Ye Olde White Horse Inne.” It
was a building full of a certain quiet character that was very
pleasing--a home-like and unpretentious structure whose picturesqueness
was the outcome of necessity, and all the more charming for its
unconsciousness.
Then wandering by the waterside we chanced upon a beautiful and ancient
house called Ayscough Hall, gray-gabled, time-toned, and weather-worn,
with a great tranquil garden of the old-fashioned sort
[Sidenote: _OLD GARDENS_]
in the rear, rejoicing in the possession of massive yew hedges, clipped
and terraced in the formally decorative manner that so delighted the
hearts and eyes of our ancestors, who loved to walk and talk and flirt
between walls of living green. In olden days the architect often planned
the garden as well as the house; so, as at Haddon Hall, Montacute, and
elsewhere, we frequently find the stone terrace forming an architectural
feature in the grounds, and immediately beyond this Nature trimmed,
tamed, and domesticated with prim walks and trees fantastically cut into
strange shapes. And what delightful retreats and pleasant pictures these
old formal gardens make: perhaps it would be well if nowadays the
architect of the house were employed to design the grounds that it will
stand in; but alas! this is not a home-building age, so only rarely is
the idea feasible--for does not the modern man generally buy his
“desirable residence” ready-made as he does his furniture, fitting into
it as best he may?
Upon inquiry we learnt that this charming old-world hall with its dreamy
garden, so eloquent of the past, had been purchased by the town for a
public park. Fortunate people of Spalding! And what a unique and
enjoyable little park it will make if it is only left alone and
preserved as it is; but if for a passing fad or fashion the landscape
gardener is ever let loose thereon, what havoc may be wrought under the
cuckoo-cry of improvement! Such old gardens are the growth of centuries;
money will not create them in less time, yet, sad to realise, they may
be destroyed in a few weeks or days! What the modern restorer is to an
ancient and beautiful church, so is the modern landscape gardener to the
quaintly formal old English garden.
The house itself appeared to be deserted and shut up, so that
unfortunately we were unable to obtain a glance at its interior. Some
portions of the building looked very old, possibly as early as the
fifteenth century, especially a large stone-mullioned window, filled--we
judged from the exterior view--with some interesting specimens of
ancient heraldic glass, but the other portions were of later date, and
signs of nineteenth-century modernising were not wanting. We asked a man
we saw if he knew how old the oldest part of the hall was, and he
honestly replied that he did not; “but it be a goodish bit older nor I.
You sees they don’t register the birth of buildings as they does babies,
so it’s difficult to find out how old they be.” Then the man chuckled to
himself, “You sees I’se a bit of a wit in my way,” but it was just what
we did not see; nevertheless we put on a conventional smile just to
please him, whereupon, in a confidential whisper, he informed us where
we could get “as good a glass of ale as is to be had in all
Lincolnshire, if not better, and I don’t mind a-showing you the way
there and drinking your very good health.” It is rather damping to think
how many of our conversations with rural folk have come to a similar
ending. “Why,” we rejoined in feigned surprise, “you look like a
teetotaler; you surely would not be seen drinking beer in a
public-house.” The air of mute astonishment that pervaded his features
was a study. “Well, I’m blest!”
[Sidenote: _A CHARACTER_]
he exclaimed, more in a tone of sorrow than of anger, “I’ve never been
taken for that before”--and thereupon he turned round and walked hastily
away with as much dignity as he could assume. Could it be that we had
hurt his feelings by our unfounded imputation, or could he possibly
think that we had made such a base insinuation for the mean purpose of
saving our twopence? However, we did not feel inclined to call after
him, so the incident closed. One does meet with curious characters on
the road--a remark I believe that I have made before. Then we again
turned our diverted attention to the old house, which pleased us from
the indefinable look it had of having seen an eventful and historic
past: one generation had done this, another had done that, one had
added, another had pulled down; so at least we read the story in stone.
Next we found our way by accident, not of set purpose, to the spacious
parish church, a much altered and enlarged edifice, unless our judgment
by appearances was at fault--a cathedral in miniature. Somehow, though
manifestly of considerable archæological interest, the fabric did not
appeal to us, but this may have been owing to our mood that day. The
interior is vast--but we do not worship mere vastness--and has the
peculiarity of possessing four aisles; two, instead of the usual one, on
each side. An enthusiastic antiquary, whom I afterwards met, declared to
me that Spalding church was one of the finest and most interesting in
the county, and jokingly remarked in a good-natured way that my not
finding it so proved that I was uninteresting. Well, I accept the
reproach, and cling to my own opinion! It is strange how one sometimes
takes a sudden dislike to a place or building as well as to a person,
for no reason that we can possibly assign to ourselves; and for my own
part, favourable or unfavourable, my first impression lasts. It is a
clear case of--
I do not like thee, Dr. Fell--
The reason why I cannot tell:
But this I know, and know full well,
I do not like thee, Dr. Fell.
Not being interested in the church, we wandered about the large and
grass-grown graveyard, and amidst the moss-encrusted and lichen-laden
tombstones, in search of any quaint epitaph that Time and man might have
spared, for I regret to say that the despoiling hand of religious
prudery is answerable for the deliberate destruction of sundry quaint
epitaphs. A flagrant case of this came under my notice on a previous
journey, when I learnt that the two concluding lines of a tombstone
inscription had been purposely erased as being profane. By fortunate
chance I was enabled, through a clergyman who had retained a copy of the
sinning lines, to rescue them from oblivion; though, to be perfectly
honest, I have to confess that the words of the obliterated lines were
given to me for the purpose of justifying their removal! However,
looking upon such things, as I ever endeavour to do, in the spirit of
the age that dictated them, the condemned lines appeared innocent enough
to me; but then, as a certain high church ecclesiastic once told me, in
his opinion, when curious old epitaphs were concerned, my charity was
“too wide, and covered too many sins.” Whether my charity be too wide or
not is a matter I do not care to discuss, but my readers may judge for
themselves, if they be so minded and care to take the trouble to refer
to a former work of mine, _Across England in a Dog-cart_, page 386.
[Sidenote: _GRAVEYARD LITERATURE_]
Our search in the churchyard at Spalding for any curious epitaphs was
unrewarded by any “finds”; we discovered nothing but dreary
commonplaces. Graveyard literature is becoming--has become, rather
should I say--very proper, very same, yet very sad. Somehow those quaint
old-time inscriptions appeal to me; when I read them I seem to
understand what manner of man lies sleeping below; they bring the dead
to life again, and rescue forgotten traits from total oblivion. It seems
to us now strange that our ancestors should have treated death in this
lighter strain, though perhaps not stranger than some of the coarse
jokes in carvings that the presumably devout monkish medieval sculptor
introduced into the churches of the period. Each age sees things from
its own standpoint, and I am inclined to think that we take both life
and death more seriously than our ancestors:--
Each century somewhat new
Is felt and thought of death--the problem strange
With newer knowledge seems to change,
It changes, as we change our point of view.
And in this age when over much is known,
When Science summons from the deep
Dim past the centuries that sleep,
When Thought is crowned for ruler, Thought alone,
We gaze at Death with saddest eyes.
Soon, especially if man is to be allowed to help Time in the work of
obliteration, quaint and interesting epitaphs will only be discoverable
in books; perhaps better this than to be lost altogether, but I do not
like my epitaphs served thus; I prefer to trace them for myself direct
from the ancient tombstones, even though it entails a journey, time, and
trouble to do this, for then I know they are genuine. I have an uneasy
suspicion that the majority of clever and amusing epitaphs we find in
books never came from tombstones at all, but owe their existence solely
to the inventive faculties of various writers; I hope I am wrong, but my
hoping does not prove me so! As an example of what I mean, I was reading
a work the other day by a learned antiquary, in which I found quoted
quite seriously the following droll epitaph--
Underneath this ancient pew
Lieth the body of Jonathan Blue,
His name was Black, but that wouldn’t do,
with the information that it existed in a church in Berkshire. Now this
really will not do, it is far too indefinite; I object to be sent
epitaph-hunting all over a whole county; it would surely be as easy to
give the name of the church as to state that it was somewhere “in
Berkshire,” which is suggestive of its being nowhere! Even when you know
the precise locality of the church wherein is a quaint epitaph, it is
not always easy to find the latter, as on one occasion I actually learnt
from the clerk that an inscription that I had come a long way specially
to see for myself and to copy, had been covered over and hidden by a
brand new organ! Matting you may move, even a harmonium, and I always do
on principle, as I once made an interesting discovery by so doing; but
an organ is a very different matter: not that I should have any scruples
under the circumstances in moving an organ, if I could!
[Sidenote: _A JOKING SIGN_]
From the church we strolled down the river-side, or as near to it as we
could, in search of sketchable bits--and shipping, for though some ten
miles inland (judging by our map), Spalding is a seaport, small, but
flourishing in its way; brigs and sloops, inconsiderable in size
according to modern commercial ideas, find their way thither, and these
are more profitable to the artist, if not to their owners, than huge
steamers and big iron vessels. Small sea-craft are always picturesque,
which is more than can be said of their larger brethren. On our way we
passed a public-house, its projecting sign had two men’s heads painted
thereon, with the title above, “The Loggerheads,” and below the legend,
“We be Loggerheads three,” a joke at the expense of the reader. It would
be interesting to learn the origin of this curious and uncommon sign. I
have consulted all the likely books in my library, but, though I find
allusions to it, I can discover no explanation thereof.
It was late in the afternoon before we made a start from Spalding;
exploring, sketching, and photographing, to say nothing of
epitaph-hunting or chatting with local folk, take up time, so our
morning slipped quietly away before we knew it, though we had made an
early beginning. As the time remaining was short, after a glance at our
map, we determined to drive on to Bourn, a twelve-mile stage, and to
remain there the night.
Since mid-day the sky had clouded over, whilst the barometer had dropped
considerably; the weather looked gray and gloomy, and the wind blew
gustily from the west. “You’ll have a storm,” prophesied the ostler,
“and it’s a wild, exposed road on to Bourn, right across the marshes,
and there’s no shelter on the way.” We smilingly thanked the ostler for
his information and his solicitude for our welfare, but all the same
proceeded on our stage, jokingly reminding him that we were composed of
“neither sugar nor salt.” So with this encouraging “set-off” we parted,
and soon found ourselves once more in the wide Fenland, with which our
road was on a level, neither above nor below, as generally prevails in
the district. Passing by a gray, stone-built, and picturesque old home,
some short distance off in the flat fields, and leaving behind the last
traces of Spalding in the shape of roadside villas and prim cottages, we
entered upon a lonesome stretch of country, dark and dank and dreary,
yet fascinating because so dreary, so foreign-looking, and so eerie!
Overhead, without a break, stretched the louring, dun-coloured sky; the
low-lying landscape around, as though in sympathy therewith, was all of
dull greens and grays, varied by long wide dykes and sedgy pools of a
dismal leaden hue. The wild wind blew chilly and fitfully, and made a
melancholy sighing sort of sound as it swept over the rank
[Illustration: A FENLAND HOME.]
reeds and coarse grasses, whilst it bent into a great curve the solitary
tall poplar that alone stood out in relief against the stormy sky--
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
There was plenty of movement everywhere, for the strong breeze made
waves of the long lank grass, as it makes waves of the sea; but there
were no signs of life except for a few stray storm-loving seagulls that,
for reasons best known to themselves, were whirling about thus far
inland, uttering peevish cries the while, apparently as much out of
their element as a sailor of the old school ashore.
[Sidenote: _THE FENS_]
A strange, weird world this English Fenland seems to unfamiliar eyes,
especially when seen under a brooding sky; and there is a peculiar
quality of mystery, that baffles description and cannot be analysed, in
the deep blue-gray palpitating gloom that gathers over the Fenland
distances when they lie under the threatening shadow of some coming
storm. Under such conditions the scenery of the Fens is pronouncedly
striking, but even under ordinary circumstances a man can have but
little poetry in his soul who cannot admire its wild beauties, its vast
breadths of luxuriant greenery over which the eye can range unrestrained
for leagues upon leagues on every side, its space-expressing distances
and its mighty cloud-scapes, for the sky-scape is a feature in the
Fenland prospect not to be overlooked; in fact, I am inclined to think
that its sky scenery--if I may be allowed the term--is the finest and
most wonderful in the world. It is worth a long journey to the district
if only to behold one of its gorgeous sunsets, when you look upon a
moist atmosphere saturated with colour so that it becomes opalescent,
and the sinking sun seen through the vibrating air is magnified to twice
its real size as it sets in a world of melting rubies and molten gold:
from the western slopes of far-off California I have looked down upon
the sun dipping into the wide Pacific amidst a riot of colour, but
nothing like this! It is not always necessary to leave England in search
of the strange and beautiful; the more I travel abroad, the more I am
convinced of this!
It almost seemed to us, as we drove along, that somehow we must be
travelling in a foreign land, so un-English and unfamiliar did the
prospect appear! I have long studied the scenery of Mars through the
telescope, have in the silent hours of the night wandered thus over the
mighty, water-intersected plains of that distant planet, and had only
the vegetation of the Fens been red instead of green, we might in
imagination well have fancied ourselves touring in Mars! Truly this may
be considered a rather too far-fetched phantasy, but as Bernard Barton,
the East Anglian poet, says--
There is a pleasure now and then, in giving
Full scope to Fancy and Imagination.
Then suddenly, so suddenly as to be almost startling, one of those
scenic revelations and surprises that this singular land abounds in,
took place. Low down
[Sidenote: _A TRANSFORMATION_]
there came a long rift in the cheerless, gray, vapoury canopy above,
followed by a suspicion of warm light, after which slowly the round red
sun peeped forth embroidering the edges of the clouds around him with
fringes of fire, and sending forth throbbing trails of burning orange
everywhere over the sky; then the landscape below became reflective and
receptive, and was changed from grave to gay as though by magic, the
dull, leaden-hued waters of the stagnant dykes and dreary pools became
liquid gold all glowing with light and brightness, and the damp, dismal
swamp grasses were transformed into waving masses of translucent
yellow-green; the distance became a wonderfully pure transparent blue,
and colour, tender, rich, or glowing, was rampant everywhere: yet five
minutes had wrought this marvellous change from depressing gloominess to
cheerful gaiety! The English climate has its faults as well as its
virtues, but it cannot fairly be charged with monotony, nor does it ever
fail to interest the quiet observer. As we live in a land of such fine
and changeful sky-scapes, I wonder we do not study them a little more;
they are often as worthy of note as the scenery. Where would be the
beauty of most of Turner’s or Constable’s landscapes without their
skies? A well-known artist told me that a good sky was the making of a
picture, and that, as a matter of fact, he gave more time and study to
it than to any other part of his work. “I never miss,” said he, “when
out of doors making a sketch of a fine cloud effect, and I have found
these studies of the utmost value; you cannot invent clouds
successfully, whatever else you may do.” One day when I was looking at
a half-finished picture of his, and wondering why it had remained so
long in that condition, he exclaimed, in response to my inquiring
glance, “Oh! I’m waiting for a suitable sky!”
The last four or five miles of our road into Bourn was a perfectly
straight stretch, its parallel lines lessening as they receded till lost
in a point on the horizon--a grand object lesson in perspective! A road
level and direct enough to delight the heart of a railway engineer, with
everything plainly revealed for miles ahead and no pleasant surprises
therefore possible. I am afraid I am a little fastidious in the matter
of roads; I like a winding one, and within reasonable limits the more it
winds the better I like it, so that at every fresh bend before me, I am
kept in a state of delightful expectancy as to what new and probably
wholly unexpected beauty will be presented to my eyes: thus I am enticed
on and on from early morning till the evening, never disappointed and
never satiated.
On either side of our present road ran a wide dyke as usual by way of
fence, crossed by frequent bridges giving access to fields, footpaths,
and narrow by-roads. It appeared to us a very simple and easy matter for
a careless whip on a dark night to drive right into this dyke, which,
judging from the dark look of its water, was fairly deep; you need a
sober coachman for these open Fenland roads! Even a cyclist would be
wise to proceed with caution along them after sundown, or a sudden bath
in dirty water might be the result. Indeed, as
[Sidenote: _AN AMUSING INCIDENT_]
we drove on we observed that a poor cow had somehow managed to slip down
the steep bank into the dyke, and there she was swimming up and down it
apparently on the outlook for an easy spot to climb out, but her
struggles to gain a footing on the slippery earth were alas! in vain;
three men followed the unfortunate animal up and down, and at every
attempt she made to reach _terra firma_ they commenced prodding her
behind with long sticks and shouting violently, by way of encouragement,
we presumed; but prods and shouts were unavailing, the final result
always being that the cow slipped quietly down into the dyke again and
recommenced her swimming. Had we not felt sorry for the poor bewildered
creature we should have laughed outright, for there was something very
ludicrous about the whole proceeding. The men told us that they had been
“two mortal hours a-trying to get the daft beast out, but we bain’t no
forrader than when we begun. We shall have to go back home and get a
rope and tie it round her horns and haul her out.” Why they had not done
this long before when they found their other method of help was
unavailing I could not understand, nor could the men explain. How the
amusing episode ended I cannot say, as we felt we could not afford to
wait till the rope appeared.
At Bourn we found comfortable quarters at the Angel; this little market
town--described by Kingsley as lying “between the forest and the
Fen”--though clean and neat, is more interesting historically than
picturesquely. Bourn claims to be the birthplace of that Saxon patriot
Hereward the Wake, who may well be termed the hero of the Lowlands. How
is it, I wonder, that the daring deeds of Highlanders of all nations
appeal so much more to most poetic and prose writers, and to the
multitude generally, than the equally valiant achievements of the
Lowlanders? Was not the long struggle of the Dutch for freedom as heroic
and as worthy of laudatory song as that of the Swiss mountaineers?
The landlord of our inn pointed out to us the site of the castle of the
Wakes in a field not far from the market-place. “Some dungeons had been
discovered there many years ago,” we were informed, “but now there are
no remains of any masonry visible,” and we found it as the landlord
said. All that we observed on the spot were some grass-grown mounds,
manifestly artificial, and the traces of the moat. Close by is a large
pool of water, supplied by a never-failing spring that bubbles up from
below; this pool overflows into a wide stream “that goes right round the
town.” Kingsley describes the site as being “not on one of the hills
behind, but on the dead flat meadow, determined doubtless by the noble
fountain, bourn, or brunne, which rises among the earthworks, and gives
its name to the whole town. In the flat meadow bubbles up still the
great pool of limestone water, crystal clear, suddenly and at once; and
runs away, winter and summer, a stream large enough to turn many a mill,
and spread perpetual verdure through the flat champaign lands.”
What struck us, however, as being the most interesting feature in
Bourn--which though a very ancient town has an aggravating air of
newness
[Sidenote: _A HISTORIC MANSION_]
generally about it, even our little inn was quite modern--was its old
railway station. I must confess, at the same time, that I do not
remember ever having admired a railway station before for its beauty.
But this is, or was, not a modern railway station but a genuine
sixteenth-century one! I am writing seriously, let me explain the
mystery. When the line was being constructed it passed close alongside
of an ancient and charmingly picturesque Elizabethan mansion, known as
the Old Red Hall, which for a long while was the residence of the Digby
family, who were implicated in the Gunpowder Plot: it was here,
according to tradition, that the Guy Fawkes conspiracy was originated in
1604. The intention was, I understand, in due course to pull this
ancient structure down and to erect a station on its site. But sundry
antiquaries, learning what was proposed to be done, arose in arms
against such a proceeding and prevailed; so for once I am glad to record
that the picturesque scored in the struggle with pure utilitarianism. A
rare victory! The old-time building, often painted by artists and
appearing in more than one Academy picture, was happily spared from
destruction and was converted into a very quaint, if slightly dark and
inconvenient railway station: its hall doing duty as a booking-office,
one of its mullion-windowed chambers being turned into a waiting-room,
another into a cloakroom, and so forth. Thus matters remained until a
year or so ago, when a brand new station, convenient and ugly, was
constructed a little farther along the line, and the old house, one of
the finest remaining Elizabethan red-brick mansions in the kingdom,
became the stationmaster’s home--happy stationmaster! So it was that
until quite recently Bourn boasted the unique possession of a medieval
railway station!
Passing Bourn church on the way back to our inn we observed a notice
attached to the door, of a tax for Fen drainage and the maintenance of
the dykes, a shilling an acre being levied for this purpose “and so on
in rateable proportion for any less quantity.” This called to our mind
the ceaseless care that is needed to prevent these rich lands from
flooding and becoming mere unprofitable marshes again, and the amount of
the tax does not seem excessive for the security afforded thereby. On a
tombstone in the graveyard here, we came upon, for the third time this
journey, the often-quoted epitaph to a blacksmith, beginning:--
My sledge and hammer lie reclined,
My bellows too have lost their wind,
My fire’s extinct, my forge decayed,
And in the dust my vice is laid.
* * * * *
This familiar inscription has been stated by guidebook compilers to be
found in this churchyard and that; the lines, however, had a common
origin, being first written by the poet Hayley for the epitaph of one
William Steel, a Sussex blacksmith, and cut on his tombstone in the
churchyard of Felpham near Bognor. The inscription at once became
popular, and was freely copied all over England, like the ubiquitous and
intensely irritating “Diseases sore
[Sidenote: _ANCIENT EPITAPHS_]
long time he bore, Physicians were in vain,” etc. In a similar manner,
though to a far less extent, the quaint epitaph that formerly existed in
a private chapel in Tiverton churchyard, to Edward Courtenay, the third
Earl of Devon, and his Countess, appears to have been copied with
variations. Writing early in the seventeenth century, Risdon, in his
_Survey of Devonshire_, gives this epitaph thus:--
Hoe! hoe! who lies here?
’Tis I, the good Erle of Devonshire,
With Kate my wife to mee full dere,
Wee lyved togeather fyfty-fyve yere.
That wee spent we had,
That wee lefte wee loste,
That wee gave wee have. 1419.
This appeared in old Doncaster church in the following form:--
Hoe! hoe! who is heare?
I Robin of Doncaster and Margaret my feare.
That I spent I had,
That I gave I have,
That I left I lost. A.D. 1579.
A near relation to this may be found on a brass at Foulsham near Reepham
in Norfolk, that reads:--
Of all I had, this only now I have,
Nyne akers wh unto ye poore I gave,
Richard Fenn who died March ye 6. 1565.
But now that I have got upon the attractive subject of epitaphs again, I
must control my pen or I shall fill up pages unawares: already I find I
have strayed far away from Lincolnshire.