“A precious piece of architecture”--Guests at an inn--A pleasant
city--Unexpected kindness--A medieval lavatory--An honest
lawyer!--The cost of obliging a stranger--Branston--A lost
cyclist--In search of a husband!--Dunston Pillar--An architectural
puzzle--A Lincolnshire spa--Exploring--An ancient chrismatory.
Lincoln Cathedral is surely, both within and without, one of the most
interesting and beautiful in England; its superb central tower is the
finest specimen of medieval building of its kind I have so far seen.
Were I inclined to be dogmatic, regardless of the possibilities of what
I have not beheld, I should proclaim it to be the most beautiful in the
world, perfect, as it appears to me to be, in proportion and decoration,
besides being so dignified. It is in just this rare, but delightful,
quality of dignity that the modern architect somehow so lamentably
fails; he may be grand by virtue of mass, he may be picturesque by
accident, but dignity he seldom achieves! The chapter house here, with
its bold flying buttresses outside and grand groined roof within, is a
notable bit of eye-pleasing architecture--but I declared I had no
intention of wearying my readers with a detailed description of this
cathedral, and already I find myself beginning to do so; and
[Sidenote: _RUSKIN ON LINCOLN_]
truly Lincoln Cathedral, above all others, should be seen, not
described. Perhaps it may not be out of place here to quote some of
Ruskin’s remarks on Lincoln and its cathedral, contained in a letter
written by the famous art critic to a local celebrity at the time of the
opening of the Lincoln School of Art. I quote this the more gladly as,
owing to the nature of the communication, it may not be generally known,
and all that Ruskin has to say should be worth preserving. Thus then he
wrote: “I have always held, and am prepared against all comers to
maintain, that the cathedral of Lincoln is out and out the most precious
piece of architecture in the British Islands, and, roughly speaking,
worth any two other cathedrals we have got. Secondly, that the town of
Lincoln is a lovely old English town, and I hope the mayor and
common-councilmen won’t let any of it (not so much as a house corner) be
pulled down to build an institution, or a market, or a penitentiary, or
a gunpowder and dynamite mill, or a college, or a gaol, or a barracks,
or any other modern luxury.” This is true Ruskinian; and fortified by
such an expression of such an authority, I feel after all inclined for
once to be dogmatic and declare that Lincoln, taking it as a whole, is
the loveliest cathedral in the land. Shielded behind Ruskin’s great
authority I venture this bold opinion; other cathedrals may be admired,
Lincoln can not only be admired, it may also be loved. It is not always
one finds grandeur thus combined with lovableness!
Within the cathedral we noticed several tweed-clad tourists amongst the
crowd “doing” the building; these were the first regulation tourists we
had come upon during our drive, which circumstance brought to our mind
the fact, possibly not realised by the many, that our cathedrals have
become more like vast museums than places of worship devoted to God. I
have attended a cathedral service on a week-day, and have made one of a
congregation of five--all told; which seems, to me, a great waste of
clerical and choirical energy. I afterwards asked the verger if they did
not generally have more people at that particular service, and he
replied meaningly, “When the weather is wet we sometimes have fewer.”
And I could not help wondering whether it might not be possible, on
certain occasions, when the elements were especially unpropitious, that
the vergers had the elaborate service and superb singing all to
themselves! Which is magnificent! When the service in question we
attended was over, the tourists, who had been waiting outside, trooped
in hurriedly and in numbers more than I could conveniently or perhaps
possibly count. I venture to say that in our cathedrals, during the
year, the people who come merely for sight-seeing vastly outnumber those
who come purely for worship.
Over the ancient fane, and its immediate surroundings, there seems to
brood the hush of centuries, a hush heightened rather than broken, when
we were there, by the cooing of innumerable pigeons that love to linger
about the hoary pile, and give a pleasant touch of life to the steadfast
masonry. Leaving the cathedral and the city on the hill
[Sidenote: _A SHARP CONTRAST_]
(“Above Hill” it is locally called to distinguish it from the city
“Below Hill”), we descended to the more modern part. This time we
appeared not to tread back the long centuries, but to walk suddenly out
of the picturesque past into the very prosaic present, as represented by
Lincoln’s busy High Street. There we found tram-cars running and
jingling along; eager crowds on the pavement; plate-glass-fronted shops,
quite “up to date”; and a large railway station asserted its
nineteenth-century ugliness,--moreover, right across this thronged
thoroughfare was a level railway crossing of the London main line, and
when the gates of this were shut, as they were from time to time, crowds
of pedestrians and a mass of vehicles collected on either side. I have
never seen before a level crossing of an important main line situated in
the centre of a busy city High Street. I was under the impression that
such things were only allowed in America. I was mistaken. An American
gentleman, to whom I spoke of the nuisance of a certain level “railroad”
crossing in Chicago, maintained that such a thing could be found in an
English city. I stoutly maintained the contrary; he would not be
convinced, neither would I. Lincoln proves me wrong. I apologise, in
case by any remote chance these lines may catch the eye of that Chicago
citizen, whose name I have forgotten.
Of most places there is generally one best view, a view that is
distinctly superior to all others; but of Lincoln this cannot be said.
The ancient city, with its towered cathedral standing sovereign on its
hill, looks well from almost everywhere; each view has its special
character and charm, and no one can be said to be better than another.
As we returned to our inn and looked up the High Street, the prospect
presented to us of the cathedral raised high over the red-roofed houses,
gabled walls, and gray bits of medieval masonry peeping out here and
there, with just a touch of mystery superadded by the blue film of smoke
that floated veil-like over the lower city, was most poetic; gold and
gray showed the sentinel towers as they stood in sunshine or shadow,
softly outlined against the darkening sky. Another most effective view
of Lincoln is from “the pool,” where the river widens out; here the
foreground is changed from houses to reflective water with sleepy
shipping thereon, shipping of the homely kind that navigates inland
waters. But from almost every point “below hill,” where the cathedral
can be seen as a whole--there is a picture such as the true artist
loves; not sensational at all, but simply beautiful and benevolent,
which is more to my mind. Lincoln as a picture charms, it does not
astonish; it is supremely effective without being in the least
theatrical or unreal; unlike the architectural scenery of Italy--if I
may be allowed the term--it does not suggest the painting of a
drop-scene, nor the background of an opera!
Lincoln “above hill” is not only one of the most pleasant cities in
England, it is also one of the most picturesque; it is beautiful close
at hand, it is beautiful beheld at a distance.
In the evening we had evidence of having come back to modern
civilisation as represented by a _table d’hôte_, a luxury that we had
missed, without regret, at the homely old-fashioned hostelries wherein
we had been so comfortably entertained hitherto on the way. It was a
simple _table d’hôte_, however, with more of the name than the reality
about it, nevertheless it was “served at separate tables” in true
British insular fashion. Though the tables were separate we had one
allotted to us with a stranger, and, according to the “custom of the
country,” commenced our meal in mutual silence, neither speaking a word
to the other, both being equally to blame in this respect. At an
American hotel, under similar circumstances, such unsociability would be
considered unmannered--and it would be impossible.
[Sidenote: _INN_ VERSUS _HOTEL_]
Accustomed so long to the friendliness of the old-fashioned inn, we
could not stand the freezing formality of the hotel--it depressed us. So
we endeavoured, with the usual commonplaces about the weather and so
forth, to break the oppressive silence, only to be answered in gruff
monosyllables. This was not promising; even though we might be
addressing a man of importance in fact, or solely in his own estimation,
surely it would do him no harm to make a show of civility to a stranger
that fate had brought him in close contact with at an inn. Truly, he
might be a lord or a commercial traveller, we could not tell, nor did it
matter to us; we merely wished to be sociable. By tact at last we
prevailed. There is no armour against tact and a pleasant manner that
costs nothing, and over an after-dinner cigar--one of the stranger’s
cigars, by the way, which he pressed upon us as being “so much better
than what you buy at hotels”--we actually became such friends that he
gave us his card, and, learning that we were on a driving tour, actually
added a most pressing invitation for us to come and stay with him at his
place in the country, “horses and all.” I mention this incident exactly
as it occurred. No moral follows, though I could get one in nicely; but
I refrain.
Not only is the view of Lincoln’s cathedral-crowned city very fine from
all around, a proper distance being granted, but the prospects from many
points within the elevated portion of the city are also exceedingly
lovely, and equally rewarding in their way, commanding, as they do, vast
stretches of greenful landscape, varied by spreading woods, and
enlivened by the silvery gleam of winding river, not to forget the
picturesque trail of white steam from the speeding trains that give a
wonderful feeling of life and movement to the view,--a view bounded to
the west and south by the faint blue, long, undulating lines of the
distant Wolds.
Open to all “the four winds,” or more, of heaven, Lincoln “above hill”
can never be “stuffy,” as many medieval cities are. When we were there
the weather was warm and oppressively close in the city “below hill,”
and a gentleman driving in from the country declared that it was “the
hottest day of the year,” still in the streets around the cathedral we
found a refreshing, if balmy, breeze. Some ancient towns have the
pleasing quality of picturesqueness, but the air in them during the
summer-time seems to stagnate. I prefer my picturesqueness, as at
Lincoln, air-flushed! Lincoln, too, is clean and sweet. Some ancient
cities, though undoubtedly romantic, unhappily possess neither of these
virtues. Dirt and evil smells, in my eyes, take a great deal away from
the glamour of the beautiful. I can never get enthusiastic over dirt.
Even age does not hallow dirt to me.
[Sidenote: _A QUAINT OLD HOME_]
As we resumed our journey, a short distance from our hotel we noticed a
quaint old stone-built house with a pleasant garden in front, a garden
divided from the highroad by an iron gateway. The old house looked such
a picture that we pulled up to admire it through the open iron-work,
which, whilst making a most protective fence, also permitted the
passer-by to behold the beauties it enclosed. Most Englishmen prefer the
greater privacy afforded by a high wall or a tall oak-board fence. I am
selfish enough to do so too, though, from the traveller’s point of view,
it is very refreshing to eye and mind to be able to get such
beauty-peeps beyond the dusty roads.
Observing a lady here plucking flowers in the pleasant garden, we
ventured boldly to open the gates, and, with our best bow, begged
permission to take a photograph of the picturesque old building. Our
request was readily granted, and with a smile. In fact, during the whole
of our tour it seemed to us that we had only to ask a favour to have it
granted with a smile--all of which was very pleasant. On the road it
verily seemed as though life were all sunshine, and everybody an
impersonation of good nature. I know people have gone a-driving across
country and found things otherwise; but the world is as we see and make
it! They may have frowned on it, and that is a fatal thing to do.
Having taken our photograph, and having expressed our thanks in our best
manner to the lady for her kindness, we were about to rejoin the
dog-cart, when the lady said, “You seem interested in old places. If you
care to step inside I think I can show you something you might like to
see.” We most gladly accepted the kind and wholly unexpected invitation;
it was what, just then, we desired above everything, but never ventured
to hope for. Again it was forcibly brought to our mind what a profitable
possession is a gracious bearing to the traveller.
Entering the house, let into the wall on one side of the hall, we had
pointed out to us a carved stone lavatory of medieval date. At first
glance this looked very much like some old altar, but running the whole
length of the top we observed a sort of trench; along this in times
past, we were told, water used to flow continuously. We could not help
fancying that probably this once belonged to a monastery (a similar kind
of lavatory may still be seen in the cloisters of Gloucester Cathedral).
On the opposite side of the hall we caught sight of a genuine old
grandfather’s clock with the following motto inscribed thereon, which
was fresh to us, and so I quote it:--
Good Times
Bad Times
All Times
Pass On.
[Sidenote: _EPITAPHS ON LAWYERS_]
Before leaving Lincoln I would call attention to a rather quaint epitaph
to be found in the churchyard of St. Mary’s-le-Wyford, which runs as
follows:--
Here lies one, believe it if you can,
Who though an attorney, was an honest man.
This reminds me of a frequently quoted epitaph of a similar nature that
a friend of mine assured me he copied many years ago in a Norfolk
churchyard when on a walking tour. Unfortunately he was not sure of the
name of the churchyard, being a very careless man as to details; but I
have his word that he did not get it out of a book, so I venture to give
it here:--
Here lies an honest lawyer,
And that’s STRANGE.
* * * * *
He never lied before.
The praise in these epitaphs is reversed in another, that sounds rather
like an ill-natured version of the preceding; and as I copied it out of
a local magazine I came across on the road, let us hope in charity it is
not true:--
Here lies lawyer Dash;
First he lied on one side,
Then he lied on the other,
Now he lies on his back.
Just out of Lincoln, when we had escaped the streets and had entered
upon a country road, we found a stiff hill before us. From the top of
this, looking back, was another fine and comprehensive view of the
cathedral and city--a view that almost deserved the much-abused term of
romantic. Ever mindful of the welfare of our horses, who gave us so
much pleasure, we dismounted to ease their load. Trudging up the hill we
overtook a good-natured-looking man laden with parcels. After exchanging
civilities upon the never-failing topic of the weather with him, we
incidentally remarked that it was rather a stiff pull up for a hot day.
“That it is,” responded the stranger, as he stopped to take breath. “We
call it Steep Hill. The worst of Lincolnshire is the hills.” We noticed
that he spoke quite in earnest, and there was the hill before us much in
evidence to give point to his complaint. His remark struck us as a
curious comment to those who declare that all Lincolnshire is “as flat
as a pancake.”
Then he asked us where we were going, and we told him. “Ah!” said he,
“you’ll pass through Branston, one of the prettiest villages in England,
and I say this without prejudice, being a Lincolnshire man.” Now, as
Branston is a Lincolnshire village, we did not exactly see the sequence,
but said nothing.
Presently, when we had reached the top of the hill and were about to
remount the dog-cart, the stranger exclaimed, “If you see my wife on the
way, she’s coming to meet me. Would you mind telling her I’m hurrying on
as fast as I can with the good things for dinner?” We replied that we
should be most happy to oblige him, but as we had not the pleasure of
knowing his wife, it would be rather difficult for us to do as he
wished. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “there will be no difficulty in the matter.
You can’t mistake her, she’s over fifteen stone!” So, as we proceeded,
we kept an outlook for any one answering that description, and in a
mile
[Sidenote: _AN INNOCENT BLUNDER_]
or so surely enough we met a very stout party walking along. We at once
pulled up and gave her the message. Not readily shall I forget the angry
flush that came over that good woman’s face. “I daresay,” shouted she
back, “you think it a grand thing to drive about and insult unprotected
ladies. A pretty way of amusing yourselves, and I suppose you think
yourself a gentleman--a gentleman, indeed? Well, you’re not one, so
there! I haven’t got a husband, thank God!...” and so forth in
superabundance. We hurriedly drove on to escape the torrent of abuse.
Manifestly we had made a mistake, and had addressed the wrong party! We
did not think it worth while to attempt an explanation, even could we
have got a word in, as she probably would not have believed us, and we
might have made matters worse. For the moment we wished we had not been
so obliging to a stranger. Shortly after this incident we met another
stout party on the way; she might have been fifteen stone, more or less,
but with our recent experience we did not venture to address her. We
might have made another mistake--with the consequences!
Branston we found to be all that it had been represented to us. A very
pretty village indeed it was, composed chiefly of stone-built cottages,
pleasantly weather-tinted, many having picturesque porches, and nearly
all possessing little flower gardens in front, gay with colour and sweet
of odour. The church, too, was aged and gray, and we noticed in the
walls some “long-and-short” work showing rude but lasting Saxon masonry
and proving that a church was there before the Conquest. A bit of
history told in stone. The hoary fane suggested an interesting interior,
but we found the doors to be carefully locked, and we felt in no humour
to go a-clerk-hunting; the day was too temptingly fine to waste any of
it in that tiresome sport. Just beyond the village we observed a
walled-in park, the gateway piers of which were surmounted by two very
grotesque figures.
Branston would have done credit to Devonshire, that county of
picturesque villages; it was of the kind that ladies love to term
“sweetly pretty.” Were Branston only in Devonshire, near some tourist
centres that there abound, I venture to say it would be much painted,
photographed, and written about in a laudatory manner, and possibly also
have its praises sung of by poets; but being only in Lincolnshire, out
of the traveller’s beat, its charms are reserved for the favoured few
whom chance may bring that way.
Then driving on through a lovely, lonely country, with fine views to our
left, over a well-wooded land that faded away into a mystery of low blue
hills, we came in time to four cross-roads, where we found a lady all
alone standing beside her tricycle looking hot, tired, and dusty. We saw
no guide-post here, just where one would have been most acceptably
useful, for we felt doubtful as to our way, our map not being so clear
as we could wish--a provoking feature about maps in general, and the one
we had in particular; so, doffing our cap most politely, we asked the
lady if she would kindly direct us. “Now how can I possibly direct
you,” replied she, “when I don’t know the way myself?” We apologised for
troubling her, explaining that we had no idea that she was in the same
predicament as ourselves, and to propitiate her we offered her the loan
of our useless map! We thought the act looked polite, and that perhaps
she could understand it better than we could. The offer was a strategic
blunder. We realised this as soon as it was made. “If you’ve got a map,”
exclaimed she, “why don’t you consult it?” Under the circumstances our
retort was not very clear. So we wisely said nothing, but quietly
consulted between ourselves which road we should take at a venture. “I
think straight ahead looks the most travelled and direct,” I said. “The
one to the left looks much the prettiest,” remarked my wife; “let us
take it, we are in no hurry to get anywhere, and we shall eventually
arrive somewhere--we always do. Put the stupid map away, and let us
drive along the pretty road and chance where it leads.” So the
picturesque prevailed. Perhaps I may here incidentally state that when
we set out from Lincoln, Woodhall Spa was our proposed destination for
the night.
[Sidenote: _A LOST HUSBAND!_]
As we were leaving the spot the cyclist manifestly relented towards us,
and exclaimed, perhaps as a sort of explanation of her brusqueness, and
perhaps in hope that we might be of service to her after all, “I’m out
on a tour with my husband and have lost him! He rode ahead of me to find
the way, and that was a good hour ago, and I’ve been waiting here for
him ever since. I’m tired and hungry--and he’s got the lunch with him!
If you meet a man on a tricycle with a gray tweed suit on, that’s my
husband; would you mind telling him I’m here, and ask him to hurry up?”
We felt a good deal amused at this request; first we had been asked only
that morning by a husband to give a message to his wife, who was unknown
to us, and got into rare trouble over the matter; now we were asked by a
wife to give a message to her husband, who was equally unknown to
us,--should we get into further trouble if we did, we wondered? However,
strangely enough, often on our tours have we performed the service of
messenger; sometimes we have taken letters and delivered them on the
way; once we conveyed the official correspondence from a lonely
lighthouse; and once we were sent after a clergyman to take the duties
of another clergyman at service. So we have been of use on the road!
Presently our road dipped down and led us to a picturesque village in a
hollow, whose name I now forget, but whose pleasantness lingers in my
memory. Driving on we noticed on the summit of the spreading uplands to
our right, a tall pillar standing alone, a very prominent object in the
view, though a long way off. We inquired of a man passing by what it
was. “That? oh, that’s Dunston Pillar,” he replied; “you can see it for
miles around in almost every direction. It used to be a lighthouse.”
“What, a lighthouse so far inland?” we exclaimed. “Yes, that’s just what
it was. It used to have a huge lantern on the top in the old days, which
was always kept lighted at night to guide belated travellers over
Lincoln Heath, a rare wild spot
[Sidenote: _AN INLAND LIGHTHOUSE_]
in times gone by, I’ve heard say not much better than a trackless waste.
So you see a lighthouse could be useful inland as well as by the sea.”
We saw! On referring again to my copy of _Patersons Roads_ I find the
following: “Dunston Pillar is a plain quadrangular stone shaft, of a
pyramidal shape, that rises to the height of about 100 feet. It was
erected when the roads were intricate, and the heath was an extensive
waste, and was then of great utility; but as the lands have since been
enclosed, and other improvements made, it can now only be considered as
a monument of the public spirit of the individual by whom it was
constructed.”
Then after a few more miles we reached Metheringham, an
out-of-the-world, forsaken-looking little town; so out-of-the-world that
I do not find it even mentioned in my _Paterson_, and why, or how, it
existed at all was a puzzle to us. In times past it was shut away from
the world more than now by the wild extensive Lincolnshire Heath on one
side, and a narrow, though long, stretch of roadless fenland on the
other, so was not very get-at-able.
In the centre of the sleepy old town, midway in the street, stand the
remains of its ancient market-cross: these consist of an upright shaft
rising from some worn and weathered steps; the place of the cross on the
top is now occupied by an ugly petroleum lamp. Even a stern Puritan
might have been satisfied with this arrangement, there is nothing in the
least superstitious about it, it is convenient but not beautiful. I only
wonder that, as the ruined cross stands so handily at the junction of
three roads, it has not been further utilised as a finger-post as well
as a lamp-post! I can only put down the omission to do this to an
oversight,--a wasted opportunity to add to the disfigurement of the
country-side!
We baited the horses at a little inn here, and, whilst they were
resting, took a stroll round the place to see if we could find anything
of interest, but failed. So we took a glance inside the church, and
there we discovered an astonishing specimen of architectural
incongruity. The Gothic arches, we observed, were supported by purely
classical pillars. How this came about we could not say positively, but
we put it down to our old enemy the restorer. We should imagine that it
was done at the time that the classical revival was rampant in England,
when Wren was in his glory, and only want of money saved many a Gothic
building from being altered to taste. Fashions in architecture come and
go as do fashions in dress.
Leaving Metheringham, a good-going road that took us through a very
pleasant country brought us quickly to the hard-featured village of
Martin, composed of brick-built cottages that came close up to the
roadway, without as much as a bit of garden in front to soften their
uncomeliness, as though land in this wild remote district were as
precious as in London, so that every possible inch of it needs must be
built on! In the street, as we passed down, we caught a sight of a brick
“steeple-house”--I use the term meaningly and of set purpose--quite in
keeping with its unprepossessing surroundings.
[Illustration: STIXWOLD FERRY.]
I may be wrong, but I do not think a place of worship could well be made
uglier--not even if corrugated iron were employed in the endeavour, and
much unsightliness can be wrought that way!
[Sidenote: _CAUGHT IN A STORM_]
At Martin we descended to a narrow stretch of fen, here almost treeless
and hedgeless, and wholly wanting the wild, weird beauty of the wider
Fenland with its magic of colour, and mystery of distance. Across this
monotonous flat, our road led us “as straight as an arrow” for three or
four miles, at a rough guess. Half-way over, where there was no possible
shelter, it suddenly began to rain, then it poured in torrents and the
wind began to blow--well, I am of opinion that you can get as wet on an
exposed fenland as anywhere! After all we were not sorry that the road
was so straight, we could the sooner get over it.
Leaving the dreary fens without regret, we reached the embanked and
slothful river Witham at a spot marked “Ferry” on our map, but where we
fortunately found an iron swing-bridge. It was an ugly affair, whereas a
ferry would most possibly have been picturesque, like that of Stixwold a
little higher up the same river, which I sketched next day, and is
herewith engraved, but it was raining hard, and to ferry across, though
doubtless a more romantic proceeding, would have meant more
discomfiture, so we were glad of the bridge, nor did we begrudge the
sixpence toll demanded for the use thereof. Another mile or so of good
road brought us to Woodhall Spa, where we arrived dripping and jolly, to
find a warm welcome at our hotel. I know not how it is, but when one
arrives by road one seems always ensured of a hearty welcome.
Woodhall Spa is about as unlike the usual run of fashionable
watering-places as one can well imagine. It is a charming health resort,
but it happily boasts of nothing to attract the purely pleasure-seeking
crowd, and on account of the absence of these attractions it appealed to
us. The country around also is equally unlike the popular conception of
Lincolnshire as it well could be; it is not tame, and it is not flat,
except to the west. Woodhall Spa is situated on a dry sandy soil where
fir trees flourish, and stretching away to the east of it are wild
moors, purple in season with heather, and aglow with golden gorse. It is
a land of health, apart from the virtues of its waters, supposed or
real. The air we found to be deliciously fragrant and bracing; I do not
think that there is a purer or a more exhilarating air to be found in
all England, or out of it for that matter. There are no large cities,
manufacturing or otherwise, within many a long mile of the district over
which the wind blows unimpeded, fresh, and invigorating from every
quarter, though sheltered to a certain extent from the east winds by the
Wolds beyond Horncastle. So unexpectedly pleased were we with the place;
with our comfortable hotel where we felt quite at home away from home;
so friendly and interesting did we find the company one and all
chance-gathered there (included amongst which was a distinguished
novelist; besides a poet not unknown to fame), that we elected to stay
at Woodhall Spa for a week though we had only at first intended to stop
there the night!
[Sidenote: _A LINCOLNSHIRE SPA_]
The spa, we learnt, was discovered by accident whilst boring for coal.
The water is strong in iodine, and tastes uncommonly like sea-water, it
is naturally, therefore, very disagreeable to drink; one or two invalids
we met, however, “swore by it.” Gout and rheumatism appear to be the
special diseases for which the waters are taken; though one party we met
declared the waters “tasted so horrible” that he infinitely preferred
the rheumatism! But perhaps he was only a slight sufferer. Nearly every
other invalid we spoke to declared that the waters had done them much
good; one gentleman who walked very well, and looked very well, informed
us that when he came there he was almost a cripple and could hardly walk
at all, “and now look at me,” exclaimed he, “I’m a walking testimony to
the efficacy of the waters.” Nobody, however, appeared to give the
wonderful vitalising air any credit for their cures or even aiding
thereto, yet I am by no means sure that this may not have had a great
deal to do with them; an air so dry and bracing, yet withal so soothing,
laden as it is with the soft and healing scents of the pine-woods. Good
too for over-wrought nerves, I should imagine. Simply to ramble in the
pine-woods, and over the moors at and about Woodhall, and there to
breathe the splendidly pure and light sweet air was a delight to me; it
was like inhaling nectar! When I go to a health resort, I go to breathe
the air, not to drink the waters!
Whilst lazing at Woodhall Spa--and there is a great virtue in doing
nothing successfully at times--our good-natured Horncastle friend found
us out, and kindly placed himself at our disposal for a whole day, which
he suggested we should employ in exploring the country round about; so
we arranged to drive with him where he would, and accordingly one
morning fared forth in his company for a “regular antiquarian day” as he
quaintly put it.
Leaving Woodhall we soon came to a bit of open moorland, with a tall
ruined tower standing solitary on the highest point thereof, a prominent
and picturesque feature in the prospect. This is a portion of a stately
hunting-box erected by the Lord-Treasurer Cromwell towards the end of
the fifteenth century, who also built the grand Tattershall Castle,
which we shall see in due course. This ruined hunting-box is locally
known as “the Tower on the Moor,” perhaps some day this may suggest a
title to a novelist. The interesting country around is, I believe,
virgin ground to the romancer, a ground that, it seems to me, would well
repay exploiting,--possibly, however, from a hint a famous novelist gave
me, it may by this time have been exploited!
Then by a pleasant lane we came to a lonely farmstead called High Rigge.
Here we pulled up for a few minutes to inspect a very fine and quite
perfect “celt” of smooth-polished greenstone that had lately been
ploughed up on one of the farm fields, and was carefully preserved in
the house, and I hope it will remain there and not be conveyed away to
enrich a private collection, as so many other relics of the past have
been, and thereby lost to the public. It would be a good thing if in
each county capital there were a local museum established where such
local finds could be preserved and inspected. I feel that each county
has a right to the possession of its own antiquarian treasures; such
museums too would add greatly to the pleasure and the interest of the
tourist and traveller. County people would doubtless take a pride in and
contribute to them, so that they would soon become centres of
attraction.
[Sidenote: _A RUINED ORATORY_]
From High Rigge we proceeded along a narrow country lane--with gates to
open here and there on the way--to a picturesque and interesting old
moated house known as Poolham Hall, now doing duty as a farmstead. The
house, with the wide moat around, makes a very pleasing picture, but all
the interest is external, within is nothing that calls for comment. The
moat encircles not only the farm buildings but an ample garden; indeed,
the amount of ground it encloses, we were told, was close upon two
acres, which shows that Poolham Hall was at one time a place of
considerable importance. In the garden stand the crumbling ruins of an
ancient oratory, roofless, and ivy-grown, and fast hastening to further
decay. Our friend asked where a certain tomb slab was that he remembered
seeing there some years back, but it had disappeared no one knew
whither; presumably it was the memorial of some important personage
buried in the oratory,--the master of the manor with small doubt;
however, it has apparently perished, so hard is it in this world for
even “the proud and mighty” to ensure their last resting-place from
oblivion or desecration. But better this surely than the fate of certain
great Egyptian kings, lordly despots in their day, whose mummified
bodies have been exposed to the vulgar gaze, and knocked down at auction
in London to the highest bidder! But what matters it? it will all be the
same in a million years hence more or less--when this planet with others
“may roll round the sun with the dust of a vanished race!” Here in the
moat we were told was found a very curious object in decorative
earthenware, which proved to be a chrismatory, presumed to have belonged
to the oratory; the vessel is provided with two wells for the oil and
salt as used in the Roman Catholic Baptismal rite, so our learned guide
informed us. This ancient and very curious chrismatory is now carefully
preserved in Langton church by Horncastle, and, with permission of the
rector, may be seen there by the curious.