A civil tramp--Country hospitality--Sleaford--A Lincolnshire
saying--A sixteenth-century vicarage--Struck by lightning--“The
Queen of Villages”--A sculptured anachronism--Swineshead--A strange
legend--Local proverbs--Chat with a “commercial”--A mission of
destruction--The curfew--Lost our way--Out of the beaten track--A
grotesque figure and mysterious legend--Puzzling inscriptions--The
end of a long day.
Journeying leisurely on we presently arrived at the curiously entitled
village of Silk Willoughby; here again on asking the name of the place,
which we did before consulting our map, a native shortened it to Silkby.
It is a marked tendency of the age to contract the spelling and the
pronunciation of names to an irreducible minimum,--a tendency that I
have already remarked upon. Well, perhaps for everyday speech, Silk
Willoughby is rather overlong, and the more concise Silkby serves all
needful purposes. Still this pronouncing of names differently from what
they are spelt on the map is sometimes inconvenient to the stranger, as
the natives have become so accustomed to the abbreviated expression that
the full title of a place, given precisely as on the map, is
occasionally unfamiliar to them, and they will declare hopelessly that
they “never heard of no such
[Sidenote: _PLACE NAMES_]
place.” On the other hand, once when driving in Worcestershire we were
sadly puzzled when a tramp asked us if he were on the right road to
“Kiddy”; it eventually turned out that he wanted to get to
Kidderminster. I verily believe, tramp though he was, that he looked
upon us as ignoramuses in not recognising that curt appellation for the
town in question! He was a civil tramp though, for there are such beings
in the world, and we always make it a point to return civility with
civility, whether it be a ploughboy or a lord who is addressing us.
“Well now,” he exclaimed in genuine surprise as we parted, “to thinks
that you should not know that Kidderminster is called Kiddy. Why, I
thought as how everybody knew that.” In Sussex, too, once when driving
near Crowborough a man in a trap shouted to us to know if he were “right
for the Wells,” for the moment it did not occur to us that he meant
Tunbridge Wells, but that we discovered was what he did mean.
In Silk Willoughby, by the roadside, we noticed some steps with the
stump of the shaft of the village cross on the top; on four sides of the
base of this were the carved symbols of the Evangelists, much worn but
still traceable. We found that these steps, as is frequently the case,
formed a rendezvous and a playing-place for the village children, a fact
that can hardly tend to the preservation of the carvings!
As we had got down to make a sketch of the ruined cross we thought we
might as well walk across the road and have a look at the ancient
church. On reaching this the first thing that attracted our attention
was the following, “Iohn Oak, Churchwarden, 1690,” cut boldly straight
across the old oak door, though why John Oak’s name should be inscribed
in such a prominent position, and handed down to posterity thus I cannot
say. Possibly he presented the door to the church--though it looks older
than the date mentioned--and modestly inscribed his name thereon to
record his gift.
Within we found the building in a state of picturesque but pathetic
decay. Right in the centre of the nave was a big wooden post reaching
straight up from the stone slab floor to support the open timber roof
above; all the windows, except one to the right of the chancel which
from its position was hidden from the general view, had lost their
stained glass; and a huge horizontal beam that stretched across the
chancel also blocked the top of the east window,--the unhappy result of
a previous restoration we were informed. On the floor we noticed an
incised slab inscribed to the memory of one of the Armyn family; this
bore the date of MCCCLXVIIII, and was decorated with a finely engraved
cross, and a shield charged--I believe that is the correct heraldic
term--with a coat-of-arms. Another old tombstone laid on the floor,
having an inscription the lettering of which was deeply cut, we should
have liked to decipher, for it looked of interest, but as the greater
part was covered by a pew this was impossible.
[Sidenote: _PLEASANT CIVILITIES_]
Whilst we were endeavouring, with but small success, to puzzle out some
Latin (or dog-Latin) verse on an ancient brass, the rector made his
appearance, and, learning that we were driving across country and
strangers in the land, forthwith invited us to the rectory for afternoon
tea. Such kindly attentions had become quite customary features of our
wanderings, so much so that we had ceased to wonder at them, and we
greatly regretted in this instance to be obliged to decline such
thoughtfully proffered hospitality, as we had no means of lengthening
out the day to embrace all our pleasures! Truly the lot of the driving
tourist is an enviable one, a very enviable one when it takes him into
the pleasant land of Lincolnshire: a delightful thing it is to
experience this old-time friendliness--a friendliness that makes the
wheels of life run so smoothly, and reveals the gracious and sunny side
of human nature.
A mural tablet in the chancel rather amused us by the invitation
contained in the first two lines of a long inscription,
Kind stranger stay a moment ere you go,
Attend and view this monumental show.
Thus were we bidden to read through a tedious and wordy eulogy upon a
youth whose only distinction appeared to be that he died young,--there
is such a thing as consistency in epitaphs, the tomb of many a hero
takes up less space than this one! The famous Speaker Lenthall of the
Long Parliament directed that “no monument whatever should be placed
over him, save only a plain stone slab with the two words
Vermis Sum.”
But he was a great man and lives in history. Frank Osborne, the author
and moralist, and contemporary of Speaker Lenthall, also dictated the
epitaph on his simple tombstone at Netherworton in Oxfordshire, in which
he pertinently remarks:
I envy not those graves which take up room
Merely with Jetts and Porphyry: since a tomb
Adds no desert.
After all, simplicity and brevity of epitaph appeal more to the heart of
man than fulsome eulogy or “monumental show.”
In the chancel wall, immediately to the left of the east window, is a
tall narrow niche. The rector said he did not know the original purpose
of this, unless it were for ornament. The niche was too tall for a
statue, and we imagined from its form that probably it was intended, of
old, to receive the processional cross--the pre-Reformation churches
being, I believe, provided with a recess or a locker for this purpose. A
specimen of the latter, with the ancient ornamented oak door still in
position, may be found in the church at Barnby in Suffolk.
Then, bidding good-bye to the courteous and hospitable rector, we once
more resumed our pleasant pilgrimage, and, passing through an
eye-refreshing and peace-bestowing country of green meadows, waving
woods, and silvery streams, we reached the
[Sidenote: _WEATHER SIGNS_]
ancient town of Sleaford just as the sun was setting red in the west, a
fact, according to the well-known proverb--which however we have not
found to be perfectly reliable--that should ensure fine weather for the
morrow--“Red at night is a shepherd’s delight; red in the morning is a
shepherd’s warning.” Well, I am not a shepherd, but speaking from my
experience as a road traveller, who naturally studies the weather, I
have frequently noted that a red morning has been followed by a
gloriously fine and sunny day. When, however, the sky is a wan yellow at
sunrise, and especially if the wind be south-westerly, then you may
expect rain before evening with some degree of certainty; but of all
things to dogmatise about, the English weather is the most dangerous.
As we entered Sleaford we noticed a monument to a local celebrity, the
designer of which we imagined had been inspired by the excellent example
of a Queen Eleanor’s Cross. The structure certainly adds interest to the
street in which it stands, and this is a great deal more than can be
said of most memorials of notables in the shape of statues, which,
perched high on pedestals, are generally prominent eyesores that a
long-suffering community has to put up with. Close to this monument was
a pump, below which a basin was inscribed, “Every good gift is from
above.” The quotation did not strike us as the most appropriate that
might be chosen, as the pump was erected for the purpose of obtaining
water from below.
Sleaford, on the day we arrived, offered a great contrast to the
slumberous quiet of Falkingham, for it was the evening of the annual
sheep fair, and groups of agriculturists were scattered about engaged in
eager conversation, and flocks of sheep were being driven out of the
town, with much shouting, dog-barking, and commotion, and farmers in
gigs or on horseback starting back home added to the general
restlessness. Indeed, after the deep tranquillity of the lonely country
roads we had traversed that day, Sleaford seemed a place of noise and
bustle. Next morning, however, we found the streets quiet enough, as we
remarked to a stranger in the stable-yard. “Yes,” he said, “Sleaford is
quiet enough. It sleeps more or less all the year, but wakes up once for
the annual fair. You mayn’t have heard the saying, ‘Sleaford for sleep,
Boston for business, Horncastle for horses, Louth for learning.’”
“Perhaps,” responded we, mindful of yesterday, “as it is Horncastle for
horses, it should be Sleaford for sheep, not ‘sleep.’” The two words
sound very much alike. But our suggestion was scorned.
Rambling about the town we noted the date of 1568 on a gable of the
half-timbered and creeperclad vicarage, that stood divided by a footpath
from the church. A noble structure the latter, with a most effectively
picturesque front owing to the fact that the aisles are lengthened so as
to be in level line with the tower; the pierced parapet extending across
this long front is adorned with bell-turrets, pinnacles, and minarets,
forming a varied outline against the sky. Whilst we were taking a
pencil
[Sidenote: _A CATASTROPHE_]
outline of this charming specimen of ancient architecture, a man in dark
tweeds approached us, who said he was an amateur photographer, and would
give us a photograph of the building if we liked. We thanked him very
much for his kindness, but he did not go home to fetch the said
photograph, as we expected, but stood watching us finish our sketch.
Then we made some random remark to the effect that it was a very fine
church,--we had nearly said “a very fine day,” from sheer custom, but
checked ourselves half-way. In conversation we always endeavour to keep
the weather back as a last resource; but old crusted habits are
difficult to conquer. “Yes,” he agreed, “it’s a fine church, but it was
finer before the tower was knocked down.” For a moment we imagined that
we were talking with an escaped lunatic; we had never heard of a church
tower being “knocked down” before! “What,” queried we, “did a traction
engine run into it, or how did it get knocked down?” The answer was
reassuring; we were not talking to a lunatic! “It was knocked down by
lightning when I was fifteen years younger than I am now. It happened
one Sunday morning during service. The storm came on very suddenly, and
I was sheltering in a doorway over yonder. Suddenly there was a blinding
flash and a great crack of thunder, and I saw the tower come crashing
down with a tremendous roar, followed by a cloud of dust or steam, I’m
not sure which. Then the people rushed out of church pell-mell--men
without their hats, all in the soaking rain, for it did pour down, and
women screaming. One woman shouted out that the end of the world had
come; it was the sound ‘of the last trump,’ and it was some time before
she became calm. I never saw anything like it.” Then he stopped for a
moment, and in a more thoughtful tone of voice proceeded, “Do you know
that catastrophe set me thinking a good deal. It struck me as very
strange that we should build churches for the worship of God, and that
God should so often destroy them by lightning. That morning the
public-houses escaped hurt, but the church was wrecked by fire from
heaven. It does seem strange to me.” And he became so engrossed in his
talk that he forgot all about the promised photograph, and we did not
like to remind him. “Why do you think the church was struck?” he asked
us as we parted. “Probably,” we replied, “because it was not protected
with a conductor, or if it were provided with one it was defective.”
“But that does not explain why Providence allowed it,” he retorted; but
we declined to be drawn into an argument. So we hastened back to our
hotel, and, as we had planned a long day’s journey, ordered the horses
to be “put to” at once.
Our road out of Sleaford led us through a level pastoral land, pleasant
enough to look upon, though there was nothing on the way of particular
interest to engage our attention till we reached Heckington, a large
village known locally, we were told, by the proud title of “the Queen of
Villages.” It certainly is a pretty place, and it possesses a truly
magnificent church that seems, like so many others in Lincolnshire,
[Sidenote: _AN ANACHRONISM_]
strangely out of proportion to the requirements of the parish. This
church has the architectural quality, so rare in English churches, of
being all of one period. Like Salisbury Cathedral it has the merit of
unity of design. We noticed some fine gargoyles on the tower, and a few
statues still remain in the niches thereof. Within, the building hardly
comes up to the expectations raised by its splendid exterior. It looks
spacious and well proportioned, but cold and bare, possibly chiefly due
to the want of stained glass. We noticed the mutilated effigy of an
ecclesiastic in an arched recess of the north wall, and above, enclosed
within a glass case, was an ancient broken silver chalice, doubtless
exhumed from his tomb. But perhaps the greatest thing of archæological
interest here is the superb and elaborately carved Easter Sepulchre, the
finest we have seen in England. At the base of this are sculptured stone
figures representing the Roman guards watching the tomb; and these are
shown clad in medieval armour!--a curious instance of inconsistency, but
then there were no art critics in those days, and the medieval carver
and painter were a law unto themselves! Yet in spite of their oftentimes
glaring anachronisms, the works of the medieval artists, be they
sculptors or painters, were always effective and suggestive of life, and
never failed to be decorative. Modern art, as a rule, simply reverses
these conditions. It is above all things correct--more precise than
poetical; magnificent in technique, but wanting in spirit.
After Heckington the country became more wooded, but still uneventful.
Crossing a wide dyke that stretched away monotonously straight for miles
on either hand, the roof-trees of the little town of Swineshead came
into sight peeping above a wealth of foliage. In spite of its
unattractive name Swineshead looked a charming place, and as we had
already driven eleven miles from Sleaford, we determined that we would
make our mid-day halt there, and drive on to Boston in the afternoon.
At Swineshead we found a little inn with stabling attached, the landlord
whereof chanced to be standing at his door as we drove up, and after the
preliminary greetings he informed us that a hot dinner of roast fowl,
etc., would be ready in a few minutes. We were considerably, though
pleasantly, surprised at learning this, for Swineshead is a small,
primitive town, hardly indeed more than a large village, and our inn had
a simple, countrified look in keeping with the place, and a cold repast,
therefore, was all we had looked for, but the wanderer by road never
knows what surprises are in store for him. The few minutes, however,
turned out to be nearly twenty, and whilst waiting in a small parlour
for our meal to be served, we amused ourselves by glancing over some odd
numbers of old provincial papers that we found there. One may often
glean something of interest by studying the pages of local magazines and
papers, and we did so on this occasion. In a copy of the _Horncastle
News_, dated 9th June 1894, that had somehow been preserved from
destruction, our eyes fell upon this paragraph that we deemed worthy of
being copied into our notebook. “A strange legend is current in
Swineshead that, ‘If a corpse lies in a house on Sunday there will be
three within the week.’ This saying has been verified twice this year.”
Which statement, if true as it presumably is, I suppose, serves as an
example to show that superstitious sayings may come true at times. When
things are possible they may occur; if they never did occur it would be
still more wonderful. All the same it is a remarkable coincidence,
though of course nothing more, that this “strange legend” should have
“been verified twice” in one year. We were amused also by another
article in one of the papers that dogmatically settled the everlasting
Irish question by stating all that is required is “more pigs and fewer
priests.” In the same paper we came upon several proverbs, or folk-lore,
said to be much employed in Lincolnshire. Apropos of striving after the
impossible, we were told: “One might as well try and wash a negro
white,” or “Try to fill a cask with ale by pouring it in at the
bung-hole whilst it ran out at the tap”; we were further informed it was
“Like searching for gold at the end of a rainbow.” Then followed a
saying that house-hunters might consider with advantage, “Where the sun
does not come, the doctor does.” I have quoted these items chiefly as a
sample of the sort of entertainment that is to be found in country
papers, a study of which may sometimes while away, profitably or
otherwise, those odd five minutes one so often has to spend in country
inn parlours.
[Sidenote: _COUNTRY SAYINGS_]
At last the dinner was served, and an excellent little dinner it proved
to be. At this moment a stranger entered and joined us at our meal. A
very talkative individual he proved to be, and we soon discovered that
he was a commercial traveller who drove about the country. “Ah!” he
remarked, “you’ve to thank me for this dinner; they knew I was coming,
it’s my day, and they always have a nice little dinner ready for me. If
you had come another day I fancy you would not have fared so well.” Then
we took the opportunity of discovering how the world looked as seen
through the eyes of a commercial traveller. “Yes, I like the life, it’s
pleasant enough in the summer time driving from place to place. The work
is not too hard, and one lives well. But it’s the winter time I don’t
care for. It’s not too pleasant then driving in the country when a
bitter east wind is blowing, and hail or sleet are dashed against you.
The country is very well, and pretty enough in the summer, but I prefer
towns in the winter. You get wet driving in the open too at times; now I
don’t mind being wet and warm, but to be wet and cold is cruel; and mind
you, you have always to come up smiling to your customers. Yes, you may
well wonder at my coming to such an uncommercial-looking place as
Swineshead, but it’s in these little country towns nowadays that we do
our best trade in spite of appearances; you see they supply the rural
folk all around, for these people do not get their goods from the London
stores like most of those do who live in the towns. The parcel post
makes it hard for the provincial shopkeeper to get a living, it acts as
a huge country delivery for the stores and big shops in London: people
write up to town one day and get their goods sent down to their houses
the next.” Then our commercial suddenly remembered he had business to
attend to and took his leave, and we went out for a stroll.
[Sidenote: _A RESTORATION BACKWARDS_]
Wandering about we observed the steps and base of the shaft of an
ancient market cross by the roadside, for Swineshead was once a market
town, also another relic of a past civilisation in the shape of the
decayed stocks. Then we took a glance at the interior of the church and
found a party of ladies therein busily employed in decorating it for the
harvest festival; as we were leaving the vicar made his appearance and
kindly volunteered to show us over the building. When he first came
there, he informed us, he found the village school was held in a portion
of the nave partitioned off for that purpose, and that the children used
the graveyard as a playground when the weather was fine, and the
interior of the church when it was wet, romping and shouting about, and
indulging in the game of hide-and-seek amongst the pews! The pulpit then
was of the old “three-decker” type, and the rest of the church
furnishings in keeping therewith. This is all changed now, and the
church has been restored backwards to something more resembling its
primitive condition. Under the communion table we had pointed out to us
the original altar-slab with the five crosses thereon, which had been
used to pave the church, a fact the vicar discovered in 1870, in this
wise. Colonel Holingshead had been sent there in 1567 “to destroy all
superstitious articles,” and of his mission thus the Colonel reported:
“We came to Swineshead, here we found two altars, one was broken in
taking down, one we took entire and laid in on the pavement.” After
reading this the vicar made search for the latter and found it in the
flooring as described. So what one generation removes another restores;
one blackens, the other whitens; one has a predilection for ceremony,
another for simplicity: it is the everlasting swing of the pendulum
first to one side then to the other, there is even a fashion in religion
as in all things else, though we may not call or know it by that name.
The Puritan claimed that he destroyed beautiful things not because he
hated them, but of painful necessity because in churches he found that
they were associated with shameful imposture and debasing superstition.
To-day the modern Puritan does not appear to object to ornate fanes of
worship, he even expresses his admiration of decorative art, it is the
ritual and vestments he despises; for thus a famous American puritan
writes of Ely Cathedral: “The beauty of Ely is originality combined with
magnificence. The cathedral is not only glorious; it is also strange....
Its elements of splendour unite to dazzle the vision and overwhelm the
soul.... When you are permitted to sit there, in the stillness, with no
sound of a human voice and no purl of ecclesiastical prattle to call you
back to earth, you must indeed be hard to impress if your thoughts are
not centred upon heaven. It is the little preacher in his ridiculous
vestments, it is man with his vanity and folly, that humiliates the
reverent pilgrim in such holy places as this, by his insistent contrast
of his own conventional littleness with all that is celestial in the
grandest architectural results of the inspiration of genius.” The
pointed remark, “no ecclesiastical prattle to call you back to earth,”
is noteworthy.
[Sidenote: _A QUAINT LOCAL CUSTOM_]
At Swineshead we learnt that the curfew is still tolled at eight o’clock
every evening for five minutes, and after a short interval this is
followed by another bell which tells the date of the month. A quaint
local custom, and may it long continue! As we were leaving the church
our attention was called to the date 1593, deeply cut on one of the
beams of the timber roof, presumably marking the date of its
construction, or more probably its restoration.
On leaving Swineshead for Boston we were told to “take the first to the
left and then drive straight on, you cannot possibly miss your way.
You’ll see the stump right before you,”--“the stump” being the local and
undignified term by which the lofty tower of Boston’s famous church is
known. A tower that rises 272 feet boldly up into the air, and is
crowned at the top with an open octagonal lantern of stone--a landmark
and a sea-mark over leagues of flat Fenland and tumbling waters. This
tall tower rising thus stately out of the wide plain has a fine effect,
seen from far away it seems to be of a wonderful height, and, as an
ancient writer says, “it meets the travellers thereunto twenty miles
off, so that their eyes are there many hours before their feet.” This
was, of course, before the days of the railway, but it is still true of
the leisurely road wanderer.
Though we were told to drive straight on, and that we could not possibly
miss our way, we managed very successfully to do the latter, and the
former we found difficult of accomplishment, as in due course we came to
the junction of two roads, one branching to the left, and the other to
the right, and how to drive “straight on” under those circumstances
would have puzzled the wisest man. At the point there was no sign-post,
nor was there a soul in sight; we consulted our map, but this did not
help us, for it mixed up the roads with the dykes in such a puzzling way
that we could not make out which was intended for which. We waited some
time in the hopes that some one might appear on the scene, but no one
did, so at last we selected the right-hand road as tending, if anything,
slightly more in the direction of Boston “stump” than the other,
nevertheless it proved to be the wrong one, and we presently found
ourselves in a maze of byroads complicated with dykes. We were by no
means driving “straight on,” according to instructions, though we kept
the famous “stump” in view and ahead of us, now slightly to the right
and now to the left; but in time we found that we were gradually getting
nearer to it, which was satisfactory,--and, after all, we reasoned to
ourselves, it does not matter greatly how we progress, so long as we do
progress and we reach our destination and an inn before nightfall. Our
horses are going fresh, the country is interesting and full of
character, and would even probably be pronounced beautiful by a
Dutchman!
[Sidenote: _A MYSTERIOUS INSCRIPTION_]
So by “indirect, crooked ways” we reached Frampton, an out-of-the-world
village, a spot where one might go in search of peace when
weary of men’s voices and their tread,
Of clamouring bells and whirl of wheels that pass.
It seemed a place so very remote from “the busy haunts of men.” It
impressed us with its restful calm. Here by the side of the road stood
its ancient and picturesque church,--we had seen enough churches that
day to last for a whole tour, but somehow this rural fane so charmed us
that we felt we could not pass it by without a glance; and it was well
we did not, for here we made one of the most interesting discoveries of
our journey. Strolling round the graveyard in search of any curious
epitaph we noticed the quaint carving of a grotesque head on a buttress
of the north wall of the building. Upon closer inspection we further
discovered a puzzling inscription beneath this, which we made out to be
as follows:--
✠ Wot ye whi i stond
Here for i forswor mi fat ...
Ego Ricardus in
Angulo.
We made out the inscription without difficulty, all but the last word of
the second line, which appears to begin “fat,” but the next letter or
letters are undecipherable. We hazarded a guess that the missing letter
might be “f” and that the word was intended for “faith,” but it might
equally well have ended with the letters “her” and so have read
“father.” At the time, however, we were inclined to the first rendering,
and concluded that the head above was meant to represent a monk who had
turned apostate, and, therefore, was placed there in the cold outside
the church, and made, like a naughty boy, to stand in the corner.
This grotesque figure with the enigmatical inscription below greatly
interested us, so much indeed that we resolved, if by any means it were
possible, to obtain the correct interpretation thereof. But we found,
somewhat to our surprise, that the few likely people of whom we inquired
were not even aware of the existence of such a thing in their
neighbourhood. However, after much searching, we heard of a certain
learned Lincolnshire antiquary who had long and carefully studied the
strange figure and legend; so on our return home we ventured to write
and ask him if he could throw any light upon the subject. To our request
we received a most courteous reply, an extract from which I hereby give,
as it is of much interest, even if it does not actually determine the
meaning of the curious bit of sculpturing: “It evidently records some
_local_ matter or scandal. Looking at the date of the building, and the
history of the parish simultaneously, I find a _Richard_ Welby, eldest
son of Sir Richard Welby, lived then, and that for some unknown cause he
was disinherited by his father and the estate went to his next brother.
If he ‘forswor’ either ‘faith’ or ‘father,’ the disinheritance _may_ be
accounted for, and also its chronicle below this figure in a civilian
cap (it may be either civilian or monkish, but I incline to the former).
Of course this is only supposition founded upon dates and local history,
and may be utterly wrong.”
[Sidenote: _A TOMBSTONE ENIGMA_]
The curious carvings and inscriptions that one comes upon ever and again
when exploring rural England are a source of great interest to the
traveller of antiquarian tastes, and there are many such scattered over
the land of a most puzzling nature. Take the following tombstone enigma,
for instance, to be found in Christchurch graveyard in Hampshire. Who
will unravel the hidden import of this most mysterious legend? I have
tried long and hard to arrive at some probable solution thereof but all
in vain.
We were not slayne bvt rays’d,
Rays’d not to life,
But to be bvried twice
By men of strife.
What rest covld the living have
When the dead had none.
Agree amongst yov,
Here we ten are one.
H. Roger. died April 17. 1641.
I. R.
Then again in the church of Great Gidding--a village we passed a little
to the left of our road before we reached Stilton--is another carved
enigma consisting of the following five Latin words arranged in the form
of a square thus:--
S A T O R
A R E P O
T E N E T
O P E R A
R O T A S
The meaning of this is not at all clear, to me at any rate. This puzzle
bears the date 1614. The following curious inscription, too, was pointed
out to me upon a flat, “broken and battered” tombstone that lies in the
churchyard of Upton near Slough: “Here lies the body of Sarah Bramstone
of Eton, spinster, who dared to be just in the reign of George the
Second. Obijt. Janry. 30, 1765, aetat 77.” One naturally asks who was
this Sarah Bramstone? These records in stone are hard to interpret. Even
old drinking vessels, that the wanderer in rural England occasionally
unearths, often possess significant inscriptions, as the following
example taken from a goblet of the Cromwellian period, I think,
sufficiently proves. This certainly suggests a Jacobean origin of our
national anthem:--
God save the King, I pray
God bless the King, I say;
God save the King.
Send him victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Soon to reign over us;
God save the King.
A few more miles of level winding road through a wooded country brought
us in sight of the old historic town of Boston,--a name familiar in two
hemispheres. A jumble of red buildings, uneven-roofed, and grouped
together in artistic irregularity,
[Sidenote: _A POETIC PROSPECT_]
was presented to us; buildings quaint and commonplace, but all glorified
in colour by the golden rays of the setting sun, their warm tints being
enhanced by broad mysterious shadows of softest blue, mingled with which
was a haze of pearly-gray smoke--the very poetry of smoke, so film-like
and romantic it seemed. And over all there rose the tall tower of St.
Botolph’s stately fane, so etherealised by the moist light-laden
atmosphere that it looked as unsubstantial as the building of a dream,
whilst near at hand tapering masts, tipped with gold, and ruddy sails
told of the proximity of the sea. The ancient town had a strangely
medieval look, as though we had somehow driven backwards into another
century, the glamour of the scene took possession of us, and we began to
dream delicious dreams, but just then came wafted on the stilly air the
sound of a far-away railway whistle, soft and subdued by distance truly,
but for all that unmistakable. The charm of illusion was over; it was a
sudden descent from the poetic to the prosaic. Still, perhaps in the
picturesque past the belated traveller would not have fared so well, so
comfortably, or so cleanly in his hostelry as did we in our
nineteenth-century one, where we found welcome letters awaiting us from
home that reached us by the grace of the modern iron horse! Speed is a
blessing after all, though it is the parent of much ugliness!