A friend in a strange land--Horse sold in a church--A sport of the
past--Racing the moon!--Facts for the curious--The Champions of
England--Scrivelsby Court--Brush magic--Coronation cups--A unique
privilege--A blundering inscription--A headless body--Nine miles of
beauty--Wragby--At Lincoln--Guides and guide-books--An awkward
predicament.
That evening, whilst looking over our day’s sketches and notes in our
cosy parlour at the Bull, we had a pleasant surprise. “A gentleman to
see you,” said the be-ribboned waitress, whereupon in walked the
antiquarian clergyman whose acquaintance we had made the day before, and
who had so kindly given us introductions to the owners of Somersby
Grange and Harrington Old Hall. “I’ve just looked in,” exclaimed he, “to
hear how you have fared and enjoyed your little exploration--and for a
chat,” and we bade him a hearty welcome. It was in truth very pleasant
to find such good friends in strangers in a strange land!
A very delightful evening we spent together; our friend was a mine of
information, a treasury of memories--apparently an inexhaustible mine
and treasury--to say nothing of his store of old folk-lore. As he
talked, I smoked the pipe of perfect peace--and listened, and took
copious notes, most of which,
[Sidenote: _A HORSE-DEALING STORY_]
it proved afterwards, owing to the hurry in jotting them down, I could
not make much of! One story amongst the number, however, I managed to
take down in a readable form. This relates to an incident that took
place last century at one of the great Horncastle horse fairs, a story
that we were assured was “absolutely authentic.” I grant, for an
authentic story, that the date is rather vague, but the exact one was
given us, only I cannot make out my figures beyond 17--, but this is a
detail; however, the vicar’s name is stated, which may afford a clue as
to about the year. I transcribe the story from my notebook verbatim,
just as we took it down:--Horse sold in Horncastle Church. Two dealers
at the great horse fair in 17--tried to sell a horse to the vicar, Dr.
Pennington. At their breakfast one Sunday morning the two dealers made a
bet of a bottle of wine, one against the other, that he would sell his
horse to the vicar first. Both attended divine service, each going in
separately and unknown to the other. One sat by the door, intending to
catch the vicar as he came out; the other sat close under the pulpit. As
the vicar descended from the pulpit after a learned discourse, the
dealer under the pulpit whispered, “Your reverence, I’m leaving early
to-morrow morning, you’d better secure that mare.” The vicar whispered
reply, “I’ll have her.” There is perhaps not very much in the story, but
as we were assured by our clergyman friend that it was true, it may be
repeated as showing the free and easy manners of the period, when at
sundry times rural weddings and christenings had to be put off from one
day to another, because the parson was going out hunting! Yet somehow
those old parsons managed to get beloved by their parishioners. They did
not preach at them too hard, nor bother the rustic heads over-much about
saints’-days, fasts, and feasts, and not at all about vestments, lights
on the altar, or incense.
Bull-baiting, we learnt, used to be a favourite sport in Horncastle, and
until a few years ago the ring existed in the paved square to which the
unfortunate bull was attached. My informant knew an old woman who was
lifted on the shoulder of her father to see the last bull baited in
1812. He also related to us a story of a famous local event, “the racing
the moon from Lincoln to Horncastle,” a distance of twenty-one miles;
how that one day a man made a bet that he would leave Lincoln on
horseback as the moon rose there, and arrive in Horncastle before it
rose in that town, which apparently impossible feat may be explained
thus--Lincoln being situated on a hill, any one there could see the moon
rise over the low horizon some considerable time before it could be seen
rising at Horncastle, the latter place being situated in a hollow and
surrounded by heights. It appeared the man raced the moon, and lost by
only two minutes, which exact time he was delayed by a closed
toll-gate--and a very provoking way of losing a bet, we thought! Amongst
other minor things we were informed that the town cricket-field is still
called the “wong,” that being the Anglo-Saxon for field; also that just
outside Horncastle the spot on which the
[Sidenote: _THE PICTURESQUE CARED FOR_]
May Day games were held is still known as Maypole Hill. One old and
rather picturesque hostel in the town, the “King’s Head” to wit, is
leased, we learnt, on condition that it shall be preserved just as it
is, which includes a thatched roof. I would that all landlords were as
careful of the picturesque!
Respecting some curious old leaden coffins that had been recently
unearthed whilst digging foundations in the outskirts of Horncastle, of
which the date was uncertain, though the orientation of the coffins
pointed to the probability of Christian burial, we were assured that if
the lead were pure they would doubtless be of post-Roman date; but, on
the other hand, if the lead contained an admixture of tin, they were
almost certain to be Roman. A fact for the curious in such things to
make note of; according to which, however, it seemed to us, it would be
needful to have ancient lead analysed in order to pronounce upon its
date. I am glad to say that my antiquarianism has not reached this
scientific point, for it turns an interesting study into a costly toil.
Before leaving, our antiquarian friend said we must on no account miss
seeing Scrivelsby Court, the home of the Dymokes, the hereditary Grand
Champions of England, and lineal descendants of the Marmions. The duty
of the Grand Champion is, we understood, to be present at the coronation
on horseback, clad in a full suit of armour, gauntlet in hand, ready to
challenge the sovereign’s claims against all comers. After this the
Champion is handed a new gold goblet filled with wine, which he has to
quaff, retaining the cup which is of considerable value. “The house is
only two miles and a half from here; you must go there, and be sure and
see the gold coronation cups. I’ll give you a letter of introduction,”
exclaimed our good friend, and thereupon he called for pen and ink and
paper, and wrote it out at once. Having written and handed us this, he
further remarked: “You’ll drive into the park through an arched gateway
with a lion on the top; the lion has his foot raised when the family are
at home, and down when they are away. But now it’s getting late, and I
really must be off.” So our good-natured and entertaining companion,
with a hearty hand-shake, departed. Verily we did not fail for friends
on the road!
Early next morning we set out to drive to Scrivelsby Court; we could not
afford to wait till the afternoon to make our unexpected call--the day
was too temptingly fine for that; and moreover we had planned to be in
Lincoln that evening, where we expected to find letters from
home--Lincoln being one of our “ports of call” for correspondence and
parcels. It was a very pleasant and pretty drive from Horncastle to
Scrivelsby, the latter half of the way being wholly along a leafy and
deep-hedged lane green in shade, and having here and there a thatched
cottage to add to its picturesqueness--a bird-beloved lane of the true
Devonian type.
Presently we arrived at the stone-arched gateway that gives admission to
Scrivelsby Park; here above the Gothic arch we noticed the carved
aggressive-looking lion of which we had been told, with a crown
[Sidenote: _A “LION-GUARDED GATE”_]
on his rugged head, his paw raised and tail curled, keeping silent watch
and ward around, as he has done for centuries past. The gateway at once
brought to mind one of the few descriptive lines in “Locksley Hall Sixty
Years After”--
Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the lion-guarded gate.
We had, fortunately, brought our copy of Tennyson with us into
Lincolnshire, so that we were enabled to refer to it from time to time.
Driving under the gateway, and along the smooth winding road across the
park, we soon came in sight of the house, the greater part of which is
unfortunately comparatively modern, and in the Tudor style, the old
mansion having been burnt down in 1765, but happily the ancient moat
still remains, and this with the time-toned outbuildings makes a
pleasant enough picture. Driving under another arched gateway we entered
the courtyard, with an old sun-dial in the centre; before us here we
noted a charming little oriel window over the entrance porch. Again we
were reminded of certain lines in the same poem that seemed to fit in
perfectly with the scene:--
Here we met, our latest meeting--Amy--sixty years ago--
* * * * *
Just above the gateway tower.
and,
From that casement where the trailer mantles all the mouldering bricks--
* * * * *
While I shelter’d in this archway from a day of driving showers--
Peept the winsome face of Edith.
Now, first at Scrivelsby we have “the lion-guarded gate”; then the
second arched gateway we drove through may well be Tennyson’s “gateway
tower”; further still the “casement where the trailer mantles all the
mouldering bricks” might be the oriel window above the porch, as it is a
prominent feature from the archway. Though I may be wholly wrong, I
cannot help fancying that Scrivelsby has lent bits towards the building
up of Locksley Hall. Perhaps I may have looked for resemblances--and so
have found them; for it is astonishing how often we find what we look
for. “Trifles,” to the would-be-discoverer, are “confirmation strong as
proofs of holy writ.” Some short time ago I was calling on an artist
friend, and I observed hanging on the wall of his studio a charming
picture representing an ancient home, with great ivy-clad gables,
bell-turrets, massive stacks of clustering chimneys, mullioned windows,
and all that goes to make a building a poem. “What an ideal place,” I
promptly exclaimed; “do tell me where it is; I must see the original;
it’s simply a romance.” My friend’s reply was somewhat puzzling. “Well,
it’s in six different counties, so you can’t see it all at once!”
“Whatever do you mean?” I retorted. “Well,” he responded, “it’s a
composition, if you will know--a bit from one old place, and a bit from
another; the bell-turret is from an old Lancashire hall, that curious
chimney-stack is from a Worcestershire manor-house, that quaint window I
sketched in a Cotswold village, and so forth. I can’t locate the house,
or give it a distinguishing name, you see.” Now this incident
[Illustration: SCRIVELSBY: THE HOME OF THE CHAMPIONS OF ENGLAND.]
is an actual fact; if, therefore, an artist could create an old home
thus, why not a poet? The poet’s task would be by far the easier, for he
can so easily generalise; the painter must particularise, the latter
could not leave a “lion-guarded gate” to be imagined, he must draw it.
Both poet and painter may romance, but the painter has not nearly such a
free hand as the poet!
[Sidenote: _SCRIVELSBY COURT_]
Pulling up at the front door of Scrivelsby Court we sent in our letter
of introduction, hardly, however, expecting to be admitted at that early
hour; still our usual good fortune prevailed, for not only were we
admitted, but the lady of the house herself volunteered to show us over.
We observed a few suits of armour in the hall, and some heralds’
trumpets hung from the walls thereof with faded silken banners attached,
but much of interest was destroyed by the fire of the last century,
including the fine and famous old panelling carved with various
coats-of-arms. A number of the coronation cups were brought out for our
inspection; the majority of these were simply adorned with the initials
of the different kings, below which was the royal coat-of-arms.
Curiously enough the cup of George IV. was the most artistic by far--I
might safely say the only artistic one. On this, in place of the royal
arms in the centre, we have a figure of the Champion embossed there. He
is represented in a spirited manner mounted on a prancing charger,
holding his lance ready poised in one hand; and on the ground in front
of him lies his gauntlet as a challenge to all comers. The whole design
is enclosed in a raised wreath of laurel leaves. And a very creditable
bit of decorative work it is; wonderfully so considering the time--a
fact that seems to prove we have always the artist with us, though
certain periods do not encourage him to assert himself. Like the poet,
the artist is born, not made; and he may be born out of due season in an
inartistic age. On being asked to lift one of these cups we were
astonished at its weight; so little accustomed is one to handle gold in
the mass that the heaviness of the metal is not at the moment realised.
The hereditary Grand Championship of England is a privilege that goes
with the manor of Scrivelsby, and was instituted by the Conqueror; and
this brings to mind another peculiar privilege appertaining to the
family of “the fearless De Courcys,” granted as an acknowledgment of
valiant deeds done on the battlefield. The representatives of this
ancient family are entitled to the unique right of standing in the royal
presence with head covered, and when George IV. visited Ireland in 1821
the then representative of the De Courcys claimed his privilege and
stood before the king “bonneted”:--
So they gave this graceful honour
To the bold De Courcy’s race--
That they ever should dare their helms to wear
Before the king’s own face.
And the sons of that line of heroes
To this day their right assume;
For when every head is unbonneted,
They walk in cap and plume!
In the restored church of Scrivelsby most of the king’s Champions rest
in peace beneath their stately altar-tombs and ancient brasses. The tomb
here of Sir Robert Dymoke, who died in 1545, and who successively
performed the duties of Champion at the coronations of Richard III.,
Henry VII., and Henry VIII., is interesting to antiquaries on account of
a curious blunder in the inscription, he being termed thereon “knight
baronet” instead of “knight banneret,” as is proper--Sir Robert Dymoke,
for his services, being entitled to carry the banner of the higher order
of knighthood in place of the pennon of the ordinary knight. This
strange blunder has sadly perplexed many learned antiquaries, and many
theories have been suggested in explanation thereof. The simplest and
most probable explanation appears to me to be the quite excusable
ignorance of the engraver. It has been thought by some that the error is
due to a careless restoration, but I hardly think this to be the case,
as I imagine the inscription is the original one, unaltered. The sins of
the restorer are great enough surely without adding to them
problematically!
[Sidenote: _A GRUESOME DISCOVERY_]
Our good clerical and antiquarian friend at Horncastle had told us
overnight that some years ago, whilst making alterations in the flooring
of Scrivelsby church, a body was found in a coffin with a lump of clay
in the place where the head should be. This was the remains of the
Dymoke who fought against the king at the battle of Stamford, or as it
was popularly called, “Loose-Coat Field.” This Dymoke was taken prisoner
there, and afterwards beheaded, and his traitor-head was exposed on the
tower gateway of London Bridge. According to Drayton (_Polyolbion_,
xxii.) the men of the defeated army in this encounter
Cut off their country’s coats to haste their speed away
Which “Loose-Coat Field” is called e’en to this day.
Leaving storied and picturesque Scrivelsby with regret, we retraced our
road to Horncastle, and got on the old Lincoln turnpike highway there; a
splendid wide coaching road running for some miles along the top of an
elevated stretch of ground, from which we obtained glorious prospects
over a country of rolling hills (the Wolds) to our right, and over a
fine expanse of well-wooded land to our left, a sea of waving greenery
stretching away till lost in misty blue. I trust that our
coach-travelling ancestors--to whom was granted the privilege of seeing
their own country when they made a journey--enjoyed the scenery on the
way as much as we did that morning; if so their enjoyment must have been
great. But the love of scenery is of recent birth. I sadly fear that our
ancestors, from all accounts, thought far more of the comforts of their
inns than of the beauties of the landscape they passed through; as for
mountains they simply looked upon them as ugly obstructions to easy and
speedy travel, and heartily hated them accordingly!
It was one of those fine, fresh, breezy days that make it a delight
simply to be out of doors; the atmosphere was life-giving. The sky above
was compounded of about equal parts of deep, pure blue and of great
white rounded clouds, that as they sailed along caused a ceaseless play
of sunshine and shadow over all the spreading landscape. “Well,”
exclaimed my wife, “and this is Lincolnshire; I don’t wish for a
pleasanter country to travel in!” “Nor I,” was my response.
[Sidenote: _A DECAYED MARKET-TOWN_]
The first place we came to was Wragby, some nine miles from
Horncastle--nine miles of beauty, if uneventful ones. It was a restful,
refreshing stage, without anything special to do or to inspect on the
way. We had seen so much of late that we rejoiced for a change in a
day-dreamy progress with nothing to disturb our quiet enjoyment of the
greenful gladness of the smiling country-side. Wragby is a little
decayed market-town, clean and wind-swept; a slumberous spot that seems
simply to exist because it has existed. The only moving thing in it when
we arrived, as far as we could see, were the great sails of one tall
windmill that stood just where the houses ceased and the fields began,
and even these sails revolved in a lazy, leisurely fashion, as though
hurry were a thing unknown in the place. We did not catch a glimpse of
the miller, perhaps because he was asleep whilst the wind worked for
him! We did not see a soul in the streets or deserted market-square, but
possibly it was the local dinner-hour. So still all things seemed; the
clatter and rumbling of our dogcart sounded so loudly in the quiet
street, that we felt as though we ought almost to apologise to the
inhabitants for disturbing their ancient tranquillity. One can hardly
realise what perfect quietude means till one has experienced it in some
somnolent rural town at dinner-hour. Such places possess a stillness
greater than that of the country where the birds sing, the leaves of
the trees rustle in the wind, and the stream gurgles on its way--all in
the minor key truly, still noticeable--to which may be added the sounds
that proceed, and carry far, from the many farmsteads, the lowing of
cattle, the bleating of sheep, the bark of dog, the call of shepherd,
the rattle of the mowing or reaping machine. No, for perfect quietness
(or deadly dulness, if you will) commend me to some old, dreamy, decayed
market-town at mid-day!
Wragby is not a picturesque place, not by any stretch of the
imagination; nor, in the usual acceptance of the term, is it in any
possible way interesting. Yet it interested us, in a mild manner, on
account of its homely naturalness, its mellow look, and the
indescribable old-world air that brooded over all. It seemed to belong
to another day, as though in driving into it we had driven into a past
century as well. There was a sense of remoteness about the spot, both of
time and space, that appealed strongly to our feelings. A mere matter of
sentiment all this, a purely poetic illusion that we gladly gave way to
for the time; it is a good thing to be able to romance, now and then, in
this most unromantic age!
We drove under the archway of the drowsy and weather-beaten old inn that
faced us here, a plain structure enough, but it appealed to us as a
relic of the old coaching days. The stable-yard was deserted, erstwhile
so busy; for Wragby was an important posting place in the pre-railway
age, being the half-way house between Lincoln and Louth, as well as
between Lincoln and Horncastle; for at this spot those two highways
meet.
Having aroused some one and stabled our horses, we entered the ancient
hostelry, and were shown into a front sitting-room, where, doubtless, in
the days gone by, our forefathers feasted and made merry. The saddest
feature of this later age is the decay of joyousness in life; we travel
luxuriously certainly, but seriously, as we seem to do all else. Our
sitting-room had a look as though it had seen better times, the carpet,
curtains, and paper were worn and sun-faded, but the room was clean and
sweet, and the sunshine streaming in made it more cheerful, to me at any
rate, than certain sumptuously furnished drawing-rooms I know well,
where the inspiriting sunshine is carefully excluded by blinds, lest it
should fade the too expensive upholstering. Yet there is nothing so
decorative or so truly beautiful in a room; it is only the poor, if
expensive, modern material that fades shabbily. Good old stuff, a Turkey
or Persian carpet, old Oriental hangings, tone and improve rather by
light, their colours are simply softened down.
[Sidenote: _HUNGRY TRAVELLERS_]
“What can we have to eat?” we inquired. “Have you any cold meat?” No,
but they could perhaps get us a chop, or we could have some ham and
eggs, or bread and cheese. We were hungry, very hungry in fact, for
driving across country on a breezy, bracing day is a wonderful
appetiser; so, neglecting the counter attractions of bacon and eggs--the
standard dish of a homely country inn when other things fail--we elected
to have the certain bread and cheese rather than wait for the doubtful
chop; besides, sometimes chops are tough, and oftentimes they are fried,
and not grilled as they should be. Presently a coarse but spotless cloth
was laid upon the table, napkins were provided, and some wild flowers in
an ugly vase made a welcome decoration--the flowers, not the vase! Even
the vase had its lowly use, it enhanced the delicate beauty of the
flowers by contrast. After all we had no cause to regret our frugal
fare, for we enjoyed some delicious home-baked bread with a sweet
flavour and a deliciously crisp crust, quite a different article from
the insipid production of the London baker, and far more to be desired,
an excellent cheese, not made abroad, and some home-brewed ale,
nut-brown and foaming, which we quaffed with much satisfaction out of a
two-handled tankard. It was truly a simple repast, but then everything
of its kind was as good as it could be, and our bill came to only two
shillings--one shilling each!
Leaving Wragby we entered upon another very pleasant but uneventful
stretch of country; it was a reposeful afternoon, the wind had dropped,
and all nature was in a tranquil mood; in sympathy with her so were we.
In fact during the whole of the afternoon’s drive we neither sketched
nor photographed, nor descended once from the dogcart to see this or
that; we were content to behold the country from our comfortable seat in
a lazy sort of way; and there is a virtue in laziness sometimes. The
quiet, pastoral landscape had a drowsy aspect that was most
peace-bestowing. We drove leisurely on,
[Sidenote: _A LAZY LAND_]
satisfied simply to admire the extended and varied picture gallery that
nature presented to us free.
Except the striking prospect of Lincoln that we had towards the end of
our dreamy stage, I can only now recall of it a confused memory of green
and golden fields; of shady woods, beautiful with the many tints of
autumn; of hedgerowed lanes, that in a less lazy mood we should
certainly have explored; of picturesque old cottages and rambling
time-toned farmsteads, the very picture of contentment; of silvery
gliding streams, and a vague blue distance bounding all.
Passing through the long-streeted village of Langworth, a name derived,
I take it, from the Anglo-Saxon “lang” long, and “worth” a street or
place, so that it is suitably called,--the fine view of Lincoln Minster
and city aforementioned was suddenly presented to us, a view not readily
to be forgotten! There before us stood the ancient minster with its
three stately towers crowning the steep hill that rises so finely and
abruptly out of the clustering city below; the triple-towered fane
dominating the whole in a truly medieval fashion. No feudal castle ever
looked more masterful, or more lordly asserted its supremacy over the
dwellings of the people. What a change from the early days when the
Church, poor and persecuted like its Master, conquered the world by
humility! That day we beheld the Church triumphant. There is no
suggestion of poverty or humility about this majestic minster, but there
is a plentiful suggestion of dignity and Christian (?) pride. The
position of Lincoln Cathedral in stateliness is unrivalled in England,
with the possible exception of that of Durham which in a like manner
stands imperial upon its rocky height above the smoky city; but Durham
is dark and sombre, whilst Lincoln is bright and clean and beautiful. It
may perhaps, though doubtfully, be conceded that Durham has the more
romantic situation, and Lincoln the more picturesque--if one can
distinguish so.
Lincoln may roughly be divided into two distinct portions, the more
ancient and picturesque part being situated on the hill, and clustering
immediately around the cathedral; the other and more modern, very modern
mostly, with its railways and tram-lined streets, being situated on the
level-lying land below; the descent from the former to the latter is by
one of the steepest streets--it is called “the Steep” locally, if I
remember aright--I verily believe in all England; indeed, it seemed to
us, it could not well be much steeper without being perpendicular! In
the quaint and ancient part, with its many reminders of the long ago in
the shape of time-worn medieval buildings--from ruined castle, fortified
gateway, gray and gabled home--we found a comfortable and quiet inn,
such as befits a cathedral city; an inn standing almost under the shadow
of the stately pile, that rose upwards close by, a solemn shapely mass
of pearly-gray against the sunlit sky.
Having secured quarters for the night, the first thing we did was,
naturally, to start forth and see the cathedral. Pray do not be alarmed,
kind reader, I have neither the intention nor the desire to weary
[Sidenote: _GUIDES AND GUIDE-BOOKS_]
you with a long detailed description of the sacred edifice. For this I
will refer you to the guide-books, of which there are many; of their
quality or utility I cannot speak, for we did not consult one ourselves,
preferring to see the cathedral in our own way, and to form our own
opinions, and to admire what most impressed us, not what the handbook
compilers assert is the most to be admired. Of course by doing this it
is quite possible that we may have missed some things of minor note, but
nothing, I think, of real importance. Personally I have always found the
constant consulting of a guide-book not only to be disturbing but
preventive of my gaining an individual impression of a place, for one is
but too apt to be influenced to a greater or lesser extent by the
opinion of others, often expressed in a most irritatingly dogmatic
manner. Some people are so annoyingly certain about the most uncertain
things in this world! Moreover, once upon a time, as the fabled stories
of childhood begin, I placed implicit faith in guide-books, but as I
grew older and knew more, my faith in them, sad to relate, grew feebler,
and this because I found that in certain things I knew well about, they
were not by any means correct, indeed, often very inexact. After which
experience I now feel less inclined than perhaps I should be to trust
them in matters of which I am ignorant or not well informed. I may also
add that, according to my experience, the personal guide is even less
reliable than the printed one; only you are enabled to cross-question
the former, and so indirectly estimate the value of the information
imparted--for a tip; the latter you cannot.
Once I got into rare trouble over a local guide-book. Armed with the
precious production I had gone over a very ancient and interesting old
church, only to find the little work sadly at fault in many particulars.
Whereupon I shut it up and placed it carefully out of harm’s way in my
pocket, at which point the clerk appeared upon the scene. He was an aged
man and talkative, to a certain extent intelligent, and he managed to
interest me, so I pulled out the guide-book and began confidentially to
expatiate to him upon its numerous failings; luckless me, I raised a
very hornets’ nest! It turned out that the clerk was the author of the
work in question, and very proud he was of his production too. He had
lived in the place all his life, “man and boy,” he indignantly informed
me, and thought he ought to know more about the church than an utter
stranger. Why, the book had been the work of his life, and was it likely
that I, who confessed to having only come there the day before, should
know better about “his” church than he did? Which was no answer to my
comments, nor was the request, almost a demand, to let him have the
guide-book at the price I had given for it. He would not condescend to
discuss the points in dispute, though he kindly confessed I might know a
little about “_h_architecture and _h_antiquities, but you know,” he
loftily exclaimed, with the self-satisfied air of a man having special
knowledge, “you know the old saying ‘a little learning is a dangerous
thing,’” and with this parting shaft he walked away. Poor old man, and
if he only knew how sorry we felt that we had so innocently hurt his
[Sidenote: _AN AMUSING INCIDENT_]
feelings! This was a lesson to us never again to run down a work of any
kind before strangers, for one of them may be its author! An amusing
incident of a somewhat similar nature came under my notice at a
dinner-party. The host was a picture-lover and purchaser, not perhaps a
very discriminating one, but this is a matter aside; however, he bought
pictures and entertained artists, and his dining-room was hung round
with numerous paintings, some good, some indifferent. I believe the
personality of the artist often unconsciously influenced the host in his
purchases; if he liked the man he was biassed in favour of his work. At
one of his pleasant little parties, a lady innocently remarked, _sotto
voce_, to the gentleman who had taken her down to dinner, possibly more
to make conversation than anything else, “Do you see that picture over
there? I cannot imagine how Mr. Dash could have bought it; don’t you
think it a regular daub? I ask you as I understand you are an artist.”
It was an unfortunate speech, as the reply showed, for the gentleman
exclaimed, with an amused smile, be it confessed, “Madam, it’s bound to
be a daub, for I painted it!”