In a haunted house--A strange story--A ghost described!--An offer
declined--Market-day in a market-town--A picturesque crowd--Tombs
of ancient warriors--An old tradition--Popular errors--A chat by
the way--The modern Puritan--A forgotten battle-ground--At the sign
of the “Bull.”
Reaching the next field we saw the house before us, a small, plain,
box-like structure of brick, roofed with slate, and having a tiny
neglected garden in front divided from the farm lands by a low wall. An
unpretentious, commonplace house it was, of the early Victorian small
villa type, looking woefully out of place in the pleasant green country,
like a tiny town villa that had gone astray and felt uncomfortable in
its unsuitable surroundings. At least we had expected to find an
old-fashioned and perhaps picturesque farmstead, weathered and gray,
with casement windows and ivy-clad walls. Nothing could well have been
farther from our ideal of a haunted dwelling than what we beheld; no
high-spirited or proper-minded ghost, we felt, would have anything to do
with such a place, and presuming that he existed, he at once fell in our
estimation--we despised him! I frankly own that this was not the proper
spirit in which to commence our investigations--we ought to have kept an
open mind, free from prejudice. Who were we that we should judge what
was a suitable house for a ghost to haunt? But it did look so prosaic,
and looks count for so much in this world! The flat front of the house
was pierced with five sash windows, three on the top story and two on
the ground floor below, with the doorway between,--the sort of house
that a child first draws.
[Sidenote: _A SUCCESSFUL SEARCH_]
We did not enter the little garden, nor approach the regulation front
door, for both had the appearance of being seldom used, but, wandering
around, we came upon a side entrance facing some farm outbuildings. We
ventured to knock at the door here, which was opened by the farmer’s
wife herself, as it proved; the door led directly into the kitchen,
where we observed the farmer seated by the fireplace, apparently
awaiting his mid-day dinner. We at once apologised for our intrusion,
and asked if it were the haunted house that we had read accounts of in
the London papers, and, if so, might we be allowed just to take a glance
at the haunted room? “This is the haunted house,” replied the farmer
with emphasis, “and you can see over it with pleasure if you like; the
wifie will show you over.” So far fortune favoured us. The “wifie” at
the time was busily occupied in peeling potatoes “for the men’s meal,”
she explained, “but when I’ve done I’ll be very glad to show you over
and tell you anything.” Thereupon she politely offered us a chair to
rest on whilst she completed her culinary operations. “I must get the
potatoes in the pot first,” she excused herself, “or they won’t be done
in time.” “Pray don’t hurry,” we replied; “it’s only too kind of you to
show us the house at all.”
Then we opened a conversation with the farmer; he looked an honest,
hard-working man; his face was sunburnt, and his hands showed signs of
toil. I should say that there was no romance about him, nor suspicion of
any such thing. The day was warm, and he was sitting at ease in his
shirt sleeves. “I suppose you get a number of people here to see the
place?” we remarked by way of breaking the ice. “Yes, that we do; lots
of folk come to see the house and hear about the ghost. We’ve had people
come specially all the way from London since it’s got into the papers;
two newspaper writers came down not long ago and made a lot of notes;
they be coming down again to sleep in the house one night. We gets a
quantity of letters too from folk asking to see the house. Have I ever
seen the ghost? No, I cannot rightly say as how I have, but I’ve heard
him often. There’s strange noises and bangings going on at nights, just
like the moving about of heavy furniture on the floors, and knockings on
the walls; the noises used to keep me awake at first, but now I’ve got
used to them and they don’t trouble me. Sometimes, though, I wakes up
when the noises are louder than usual, or my wife wakes me up when she
gets nervous listening to them, but I only says, ‘The ghost is lively
to-night,’ and go to sleep again. I’ve got used to him, you see, but he
upsets the missus a lot. You see she’s seen the ghost several times, and
I only hear him.” The wife meanwhile was intent on her work and made no
remark. “This is all very strange and interesting,” we exclaimed; “and
so the house is really haunted?” Now it was the wife’s turn. “I should
rather think so,” she broke in, “and you’d think so too if you only
slept a night here, or tried to, for you’d not get much sleep unless you
are used to noises, I can tell you: they’re awful at times. I daren’t be
in the house alone after sundown, I’m that afraid.” “And you’ve actually
seen the ghost?” I broke in. “Yes, that I have, three or four times
quite plainly, and several times not quite so plainly; he quite
terrifies me, and one never knows when to expect him.” “Ah! that’s an
unfortunate way ghosts have,” we remarked sympathetically, “but
good-mannered ones are never troublesome in the daytime: that’s one
blessing.”
[Sidenote: _A NOISY GHOST_]
Eventually the busy housewife finished her task, and the peeled potatoes
were safely put in the pot to boil. At this juncture she turned to us
and said she was free for a time and would be very pleased to show us
over the house and give us any information we wished, which was very
kind of her. We then slipped a certain coin of the realm into the hands
of her husband as a slight return for the courtesy shown to us. He
declared that there was no necessity for us to do this, as they did not
wish to make any profit out of their misfortunes, and as he pocketed the
coin with thanks said they were only too pleased to show the house to
any respectable person. The farmer certainly had an honest, frank face.
His wife, we noticed, had a dreamy, far-away look in her eyes, but she
said she did not sleep well, which might account for this. She appeared
nervous and did not look straight at us, but this might have been
manner. First she led the way to a narrow passage, in the front of the
house, that contained the staircase. On either side of this passage was
a door, each leading into a separate sitting-room, both of which rooms
were bare, being entirely void of furniture. Then she told her own
story, which I repeat here from memory, aided by a few hasty notes I
made at the time. “Ever since we came to this house we have been
disturbed by strange noises at nights. They commenced on the very first
night we slept here, just after we had gone to bed. It sounded for all
the world as though some one were in the house moving things about, and
every now and then there was a bang as though some heavy weight had
fallen. We got up and looked about, but there was no one in the place,
and everything was just as we left it. At first we thought the wind must
have blown the doors to, for it was a stormy night, and my husband said
he thought perhaps there were rats in the house. This went on for some
weeks, and we could not account for it, but we never thought of the
house being haunted. We were puzzled but not alarmed. Then one night,
when my husband had gone to bed before me (I had sat up late for some
reason), and I was just going up that staircase, I distinctly saw a
little, bent old man with a wrinkled face standing on the top and
looking steadily down at me. For the moment I wondered who he could be,
never dreaming he was a ghost, so I rushed upstairs to him and he
vanished. Then I shook and trembled all over, for I felt I had seen an
apparition. When I got into the bedroom I shut the door, and on looking
round saw the ghost again quite plainly for a moment, and then he
vanished as before. Since then I’ve seen him about the house in several
places.”
[Sidenote: _A CURIOUS HISTORY_]
Next she showed us into the empty sitting-room to the left of the
staircase; the floor of this was paved with bricks. “It was from this
room,” she continued, “that the noises seemed to come mostly, just as
though some one were knocking a lot of things about in it. This struck
us as singular, so one day we carefully examined the room and discovered
in that corner that the flooring was very uneven, and then we noticed
besides that the bricks there were stained as though some dark substance
had been spilled over them. It at once struck me that some one might
have been murdered and buried there, and it was the ghost of the
murdered man I had seen. So we took up the bricks and dug down in the
earth below, and found some bones, a gold ring, and some pieces of silk.
You can see where the bricks were taken up and relaid. I’m positive it
was a ghost I saw. The noises still continue, though I’ve not seen the
ghost since we dug up the bones.” After this, there being nothing more
to be seen or told, we returned to the kitchen. Here we again
interviewed the farmer, and found out from him that the town of Spilsby,
with a good inn, was only a mile away. Thereupon I decided to myself
that we would drive on to Spilsby, secure accommodation there for wife
and horses for the night, and that I would come back alone and sleep in
the haunted room, if I could arrange matters. With the carriage rugs,
the carriage lamp and candles, some creature comforts from the inn, and
a plentiful supply of tobacco, it appeared to me that I could manage to
pass the night pretty comfortably; and if the ghost looked in--well, I
would approach him in a friendly spirit and, he being agreeable, we
might spend quite a festive evening together! If the ghost did not
favour me, at least I might hear the noises--it would be something to
hear a ghost! Thereupon I mentioned my views to the farmer; he made no
objection to the arrangement, simply suggesting that I should consult
the “missus” as to details; but alas! she did not approve. “You know,”
she said, addressing her husband, “the gentleman might take all the
trouble to come and be disappointed; the ghost might be quiet that very
night; he was quiet one night, you remember. Besides, we promised the
two gentlemen from the London paper that they should come first, and we
cannot break our word.” Appeals from this decision were in vain; the
wife would not hear of our sleeping the night there on any terms, all
forms of persuasion were in vain. Manifestly our presence in the haunted
chamber for the night was not desired by the wife. As entreaties were
useless there was nothing for it but to depart, which we did after again
thanking them for the courtesies already shown; it was not for us to
resent the refusal. “Every Englishman’s house is his castle” according
to English law, and if a ghost breaks the rule--well, “the law does not
recognise ghosts.” So, with a sense of disappointment amounting almost
to disillusion, we departed. I feel quite hopeless now of ever seeing a
ghost, and have become weary of merely reading about his doings in
papers and magazines. I must say that ghosts, both old and new, appear
to behave in a most inconsiderate manner; they go where they are not
wanted and worry people who positively dislike them and strongly object
to their presence, whilst those who would really take an interest in
them they leave “severely alone!”
[Sidenote: _MARKET-DAY AT SPILSBY_]
Arriving at Spilsby we found it to be market-day there, and the clean
and neat little town (chiefly composed of old and pleasantly grouped
buildings) looked quite gay and picturesque with its motley crowds of
farmers and their wives, together with a goodly scattering of country
folk. The womankind favoured bright-hued dresses and red shawls, that
made a moving confusion of colour suggestive of a scene abroad--indeed,
the town that bright sunny day had quite a foreign appearance, and had
it not been for the very English names and words on the shops and walls
around, we might easily have persuaded ourselves that we were abroad. To
add to the picturesqueness of the prospect, out of the thronged
market-place rose the tall tapering medieval cross of stone; the shaft
of this was ancient, and only the cross on the top was modern, and even
the latter was becoming mellowed by time into harmony with the rest. The
whole scene composed most happily, and it struck us that it would make
an excellent motive for a painting with the title, “Market-day in an old
English town.” Will any artist reader, in search of a fresh subject and
new ground, take the hint, I wonder?
Not far from the inn we noticed a bronze statue, set as usual upon a
stone pedestal of the prevailing type, reminding us of the numerous
statues of a like kind that help so successfully to disfigure our London
streets. I must say that this statue had a very latter-day look, little
in accord with the unpretentious old-world buildings that surrounded it.
Bronze under the English climate assumes a dismal, dirty,
greeny-browny-gray--a most depressing colour. At the foot of the statue
was an anchor. Who was this man, and what great wrong had he done, we
wondered, to be memorialised thus? So we went to see, and on the
pedestal we read--
SIR JOHN FRANKLIN
Discoverer of the North West Passage
Born at Spilsby
April 1786.
Died in the Arctic Regions
June 1847.
After this we visited the church, here let me honestly confess, not for
the sake of worship or curiosity, but for a moment’s restful quiet. The
inn was uncomfortably crowded, a farmers’ “Ordinary” was being held
there. The roadways of the town were thronged; there were stalls erected
in the market square from which noisy vendors gave forth torrents of
eloquence upon the virtues of the goods they had to sell,--especially
eloquent and strong of voice was a certain seller of spectacles, but he
was hard pressed in these respects by the agent of some
[Sidenote: _IN SEARCH OF QUIET_]
wonderful medicine that cured all diseases. The country folk gathered
round them, and others listened with apparent interest to their appeals,
but so far as we could observe purchased nothing. Spilsby on a
market-day was undoubtedly picturesque, with a picturesqueness that
pleased our artistic eye, but the ear was not gratified; for once we
felt that deafness would have been a blessing! We sought for peace and
rest within the church and found it; not a soul was there, and the
stillness seemed to us, just then, profound. It is well to keep our
churches open on week days for prayer and meditation, but the
worshippers, where are they engaged till the next Sunday? To the
majority of people in the world religion is an affair of Sundays. Whilst
travelling in the Western States some years ago, I suggested meekly to
an American, who was showing me over his flourishing few-year-old city
(it is bigger and older now) with manifest pride at its rapid commercial
prosperity, that it seemed to me a rather wicked place. “Waal now,” he
said, “I’ll just grant you we’re pretty bad on week days, but I guess
we’re mighty good on Sundays; that’s so. Now you needn’t look aghast,
you Britishers are not much better than the rest of the world. I was a
sea captain formerly, and on one voyage I hailed one of your passing
ships China bound. ‘What’s your cargo, John?’ shouts I. ‘Missionaries
and idols,’ replies he. ‘Honest John!’ I shouted back.” This reminds me
of a curious incident that came under my notice in London not so very
long ago. I had an old English bracket clock that I took myself to a
wholesale firm of clock-makers to be repaired. Whilst in the shop I
noticed a peculiar piece of mechanism, the purpose of which puzzled me,
so I sought for information. “Oh!” replied one of the firm, “that’s a
special order for a temple in China; it is to work an idol and make him
move.” This is an absolute fact. Presumably that clock-maker was an
excellent Christian in his own estimation. I do not know whether there
was anything in my look that he considered called for an explanation,
but he added, “Business is business, you know; you’d be astonished what
funny orders we sometimes have in our trade. Only the other day a firm
sounded us if we would undertake to make some imitation ‘genuine’
Elizabethan clocks; they sent us one to copy. But we replied declining,
merely stating that we had so far conducted our business honestly, and
intended always to do so.” So, according to the ethics of our informant,
it is not dishonest to make clock-work intended to secretly make an idol
move, but it is dishonest to make imitation medieval clocks! Such are
the refinements of modern commerce!
Now, after this over-long digression, to return to the interior of
Spilsby church, here we discovered a number of very interesting and some
curious monuments to the Willoughby family, in a side chapel railed off
from the nave. On one of the altar-tombs is the recumbent effigy of
John, the first Baron Willoughby, and Joan, his wife. The baron is
represented in full armour, with shield and sword
[Sidenote: _CROSS-LEGGED EFFIGIES_]
and crossed legs; his lady is shown with a tightly-fitting gown and
loosely-robed mantle over. This baron fought at Crecy and died three
years afterwards. On another tomb is a fine alabaster effigy of John the
second Baron, who took part in the battle of Poictiers; he is also
represented in full armour, with his head resting on a helmet, and
diminutive figures of monks support, or adorn, this tomb. There are also
other fine tombs to older warriors, but of less interest; one huge
monument has a very curious carved statue of a wild man on it, the
meaning of which is not very apparent. It used to be an accepted
tradition that when an ancient warrior was shown in effigy with his legs
crossed, he had been a Crusader, but Dr. Cox, the eminent archæologist
and antiquary, declares that this does not follow. “It is a popular
error,” he says, “to suppose that cross-legged effigies are certain
proofs that those they represented were Crusaders. In proof of this many
well-known Crusaders were not represented as cross-legged, and the habit
of crossing the legs was common long after the Crusades had terminated.”
I am sorry to find that such a poetical tradition has no foundation in
fact, and must therefore share the fate of so many other picturesque
fictions that one would fondly cling to if one could. Sometimes I wish
that learned antiquaries, for the sake of old-world romance, would keep
their doubts to themselves. Romance is not religion; one takes a legend
with a grain of salt, but there is always the bare possibility that it
may be true, unless shown otherwise. It is just this that charms. Why
needlessly undo it?
Now, after Dr. Cox’s dictum, whenever I see a cross-legged effigy of a
mailed warrior, I am perplexed to know why he is so shown. Will learned
antiquaries kindly explain? It is rather provoking to the inquiring mind
to say it does not mean one thing, and yet not define what else it
means. From what I know of the medieval sculptor he ever had a purpose
in his work, it was always significant. Dr. Cox likewise declares
“Whitewash on stones was not an abomination of the Reformation, but was
commonly used long before that period.” I am glad to know this for the
reputation of the Reformation.
At Spilsby we consulted our map, and after much discussion about our
next stage, whether it should be to Alford or Horncastle, we eventually
decided to drive over the Wolds to the latter town and rest there for
the night. It turned out a hilly drive, as we expected; indeed, in this
respect, the road would have done credit to Cumberland. On the way we
had ample evidence that Lincolnshire was not all “as flat as a pancake,”
as many people wrongly imagine.
For a mile or so out of Spilsby our road was fairly level, then it began
to climb in earnest till we reached the top of the “windy Wolds.” High
up in the world as we were here, so our horizon was high also, and,
looking back, we had a magnificent panorama presented to us. Away below
stretched the far-reaching Fenland, spread out like a mighty
[Sidenote: _ON THE WOLDS_]
living map, with its countless fruitful fields, green meadows,
many-tinted woods touched with autumnal gold, winding waterways, deep
dykes, white roads, and frequent railways, space-diminished into tiny
threads, its mansions, villages, towns, and ancient churches.
Conspicuous amongst the last was the tall and stately tower of Boston’s
famous “stump,” faintly showing, needle-like, in the dim, dreamy
distance, and marking where the blue land met the bluer sea, for from
our elevated standpoint the far-off horizon of the land, seen through
the wide space of air, looked as though it had all been washed over with
a gigantic brush dipped in deepest indigo. It was a wonderful prospect,
a vision of vastness, stretching away from mystery to mystery. The eye
could not see, nor the mind comprehend it all at once, and where it
faded away into a poetic uncertainty the imagination had full play. It
is ever in the far-off that the land of romance lies, the land one never
reaches, and that is always dim and dreamy--the near at hand is plainly
revealed and commonplace! Of course much depends on the eye of the
beholder, but the vague and remote to conjure with have a certain charm
and undoubted fascination for most minds. It was of such a prospect as
this, it might even have been this very one, that Tennyson pictures in
verse--
Calm and deep peace on this high wold,
* * * * *
Calm and still light on yon great plain
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening towers,
To mingle with the bounding main.
For we were now nearing the birthplace and early home of the great
Victorian poet, and he was fond of wandering all the country round, and
might well have noted this wonderful view. No poet or painter could pass
it by unregarded!
On this spreading upland the light sweet air, coming fresh and free over
leagues of land and leagues of sea, met us with its invigorating breath.
After the heavy, drowsy air of the Fens it was not only exhilarating but
exciting, and we felt impelled to do something, to exert ourselves in
some manner--this was no lotus-eating land--so for want of a better
object we left the dogcart and started forth on a brisk walk. One would
imagine that all the energy of the county would be centred in the Wold
region, and that the dwellers in the Fens would be slothful and
unenergetic in comparison. Yet the very reverse is the case. The
Wolds--townless and rail-less--are given over to slumberous quietude and
primitive agriculture, its inhabitants lead an uneventful life free from
all ambition, its churches are poor and small whilst the churches of the
Fens in notable contrast are mostly fine and large, its hamlets and
villages remain hamlets and villages and do not grow gradually into
towns: it is a bit of genuine Old England where old customs remain and
simple needs suffice. A land with
Little about it stirring save a brook!
A sleepy land, where under the same wheel
The same old rut would deepen year by year.
On the other hand, the Fenland inhabitants appear to be “full of go”
with their growing villages, prosperous towns, flourishing ports,
railways, and waterways. It was energy that converted the wild watery
waste of the Fens into a land smiling with crops; it is energy that
keeps it so.
[Sidenote: _A GLORIOUS UPLAND_]
As we progressed we lost sight of the Fens, and soon found ourselves in
the midst of circling hills that bounded our prospect all around--hills
that dipped gently down to shady, wooded valleys, and rose above them to
bare, grassy, or fir-fringed summits, bathed in soft sunshine. Along the
sloping sides of this glorious upland we could trace the narrow white
country roads winding far away and wandering up and down till lost in
the growing grayness of the misty distance--just like the roads of
Devonshire. Indeed, in parts, the country we passed through distinctly
reminded us of Devonshire; it was as far removed from the popular
conception of Lincolnshire scenery as a Dutch landscape is from a
Derbyshire one. Indeed, a cyclist whom we met that evening at Horncastle
declared indignantly to us that he considered Lincolnshire “a fraud”; he
had been induced to tour therein under the impression that the roads
were “all beautifully level and good going.” He had just ridden over the
Wolds that day, he explained, hence his disparaging remarks--and he was
very angry!
Journeying on we presently reached the lonely, picturesque, and
prettily-named village of Mavis Enderby. Its ancient church, a field’s
space away from the road, looked interesting with its hoary walls, gray
stone churchyard cross, and little sun-dial. In the porch we noted a
holy-water stoup supported on four small clustered pillars; the interior
of the building we did not see, for the door was locked and we felt too
lazy to go and hunt for the key. The top of the cross is adorned with a
carving of the Crucifixion on one side, and of the Virgin Mary holding
the infant Saviour on the other. The shaft for about half its extent
upwards is manifestly ancient, the rest, including of course the
sculpturings, is as manifestly modern, though not of yesterday, for the
latter portion already shows slight signs of weathering, and has become
time-mellowed and lichen-clad. The figures at the top are effectively
but roughly carved in faithful imitation of medieval work of the same
class. So faithful in fact and spirit indeed is the copy that there is
no small danger of antiquaries in the years to come being deceived, and
pronouncing the cross to be a rare and well-preserved specimen of
fifteenth-century work. Apropos of this carefully studied copying of
ancient work it may not be uninteresting to quote here from a letter of
Lord Grimthorpe upon the restoration of St. Albans Abbey which he
carried out. “It took no small trouble to get them (new stones inserted
in the work) worked as roughly as the old ones, so as to make the work
homogeneous, and to bewilder antiquaries who pretend to be able to
distinguish new work from old; which indeed architects generally make
very easy for them.”
As we were about leaving we observed an intelligent-looking man
leisurely walking on the road, the only living person we had seen in the
village by
[Sidenote: _A MODERN PURITAN_]
the way; we asked him if he knew anything about the cross,--who restored
it, and when? We were not prepared for the outburst that followed this
innocent query. “That popish thing,” he exclaimed savagely and
contemptuously, “we want another Cromwell, that’s about what’s the
matter, and the sooner he comes the better. I’m a Protestant, and my
forefathers were Protestants afore me. Now it’s bad enough to have
popery inside a church, as has crept in of late years,--lights, incense,
vestments, banners, processions; but to boldly bring their cursed popery
outside, well----” and he could find no words strong enough to express
his detestation of such proceedings, but he looked unutterable things.
“I just feel as how I’d like to swear,” he exclaimed, “only it’s
wicked.” We sympathised with him, and tried to calm his injured
feelings. We prided ourselves on our successful diplomacy; we said,
“Now, if Cromwell were only here he would soon have that cross down.”
This in no way compromised us, but it served somewhat to soothe the
stranger’s anger. “Ay! that’s true,” responded he, and regardless of
grammar went on, “mighty quick too, he’d mighty soon clear the country
of all the popish nonsense. Why, in my young days, we used to have
parsons, now we’ve got priests.” He then paused to light his pipe, at
which he drew furiously--our question never got answered after all, but,
under the circumstances, we thought perhaps it would be well not to
repeat it, we did not want a religious declamation--we were
pleasure-touring! The lighting of the pipe broke the thread of the
discourse for the moment, and it seemed to us a good opportunity to
depart on our way.
The fire of Puritanism, or whatever other name that erst powerful “ism”
goes under now, is not extinguished in the land but smoulders; will it
ever break out into a destroying flame again? It may; history sometimes
repeats itself! The swing of the pendulum just now appears in favour of
ritualism, strongly so, it seems to me; who can tell that it may not
swing back again? I once asked a New England Puritan of the pure old
Cromwellian stock--a refined man, a lover of art and literature--how it
was that Puritanism, in days past at any rate, was such a deadly enemy
to art? He replied, “It was so, simply of painful necessity. Freedom,
religious freedom, is more than art. Priestly tyranny had enslaved art,
bribed it into its service, and art had to pay the penalty. Nowadays art
has shaken herself free, practically free from her ancient masters, and
Puritanism and art are friends. And the Puritan lion may lie down with
the art lamb and not hurt him.” Which is a comforting thought should the
pendulum suddenly swing back again. It seems just now highly improbable,
but the improbable occasionally comes to pass. How highly improbable,
nay impossible, it would have seemed, say a century or so ago, that
incense, vestments, lighted candles on the “altar,” would find place in
the Church of England service, to say nothing of holy water being used,
and “the Angelus bell being rung at the consecration of the elements,
and the elevation of the Host,” as I read in the _Standard_ of 29th
October 1890, was done at the dedication festival of the Church of St.
Mary, in Clumber Park, Worksop! Truly might Cromwell exclaim, were he to
come to life again and see these things, “The times are changed!”
[Sidenote: _AN ANCIENT FIGHT_]
Farther on we drove over Winceby Hill, one of the highest points of the
Wolds, and the scene of an early encounter between the forces of the
King and those of the Parliament; an encounter that is said to have
brought Cromwell into prominent notice, of which conflict we shall come
upon some relics at Horncastle anon, as well as a curious tradition
connected therewith.
Leaving Winceby Hill our road began to descend; the country in front of
us, as it were, dropped down, and, far away below, we caught sight of
the red-roofed houses of Horncastle, with its gray church beyond, and
busy windmills around. It was a long descent, affording us a glorious,
far-extending view ahead over a well-wooded, watered, and undulating
country flooded with warm sunshine. It looked like a veritable land of
promise.
Down we drove till at the foot of our long descent we found ourselves in
Horncastle, a quaint old town which has earned for itself more than a
local reputation on account of its yearly horse fair,--the largest and
most important, we were told, in the kingdom. We rejoiced that we had
not arrived the day of the fair; fair-days and market-days are best
avoided by the quiet-loving traveller. We had crossed a spur of the
Wolds and had touched the fringe of a charming stretch of country
agreeably diversified by heaths and fir forests to the west, where the
soil is light and sandy, in great contrast to that of the Fens and of
the chalk Wolds. Horncastle, I have said, is a quaint old town; it
struck us as a pleasant one as well, picturesque in parts, especially by
the side of the little river Bain that winds through it, and gives it
rather a Dutch-like look. The chief portion of the town is built on a
horn-shaped extent of land formed by the river. There was also a castle
there of which some slight ruins remain, hence the name Horncastle, a
bit of information I gleaned from a local paper. Consulting our old and
well-used copy of _Paterson_ we noticed that the Bull Inn here was given
as the coaching and posting house, so we drove up to that old-time
hostelry confidently, for it generally holds good in country places that
the hotel mentioned in _Paterson_ as the best is still the best. The
Bull too was a good old-fashioned title, suggestive of the olden days
and other ways; and within its hospitable walls we found comfortable
quarters and a most courteous landlord, who also, we discovered, during
a chat with him over our evening pipe, was like ourselves a confirmed
traveller by road. “There’s nothing like it for enjoyment and health,”
exclaimed he; “I never felt so well as when I was on the road.”
Sentiments in which we were one! Soundly we slept that night beneath the
sign of the Bull. The fresh air of the Wolds acted like a powerful
narcotic. Our long and interesting day’s drive had a pleasant ending!