A long discourse--The origin of a coat-of-arms--An English serf--A
witch-stone--Lincolnshire folk-lore--A collar for lunatics--St.
Mary’s thistle--A notable robbery--An architectural
gem--Coningsby--Tattershall church and castle--Lowland and
upland--“Beckingham-behind-the-Times”--Old Lincolnshire folk.
From Poolham Hall we drove on through a lovely country, remote from
railways, and pervaded by a peaceful, mellow, homelike look; bound for
the out-of-the-world hamlet of Wispington. On the way our antiquarian
friend began a long discourse; I write long advisedly because it lasted
for nearly, if not quite, four miles, and how much longer it would have
lasted I cannot say, for on arriving at a junction of roads, we broke
the thread of the discourse by inquiring which road we should take.
“Why, bless my soul,” exclaimed he, “we’ve driven two miles out of our
way, I quite forgot all about where we were going! This comes of our
very interesting conversation.” We thought “_our_ very interesting
conversation” was an excellent conceit, considering that we had been
merely patient listeners all the time: however, we jokingly remarked
that the talk was worth the added miles, and after all we arrived at
Wispington with the best of the day still before us; there we drove up
to the rectory and fortunately found the rector, an enthusiastic
antiquary like our companion, at home.
First, we were taken to see the church, a modern one decorated within
with carvings in Caen stone representing the animals and birds of the
Old Testament done by a former incumbent, and containing some tombstone
slabs and brasses preserved from the ancient church it had supplanted.
In the pavement of the vestry we had pointed out to us an ancient
incised slab (broken) to the memory of John Hetsete, a priest; this was
dated 1394. The slab is of much interest as showing the priest in
vestments holding a chalice in gloved hands, tightly buttoned. I cannot
remember ever having come upon a priest represented thus with gloved
hands. I am not sufficient of an antiquary to say whether this feature
is unique, it certainly is very uncommon.
A brass, now on the south wall of the church near the porch, is
inscribed to the memory of Robert Tyrwhitt; here on a shield is shown
the coat-of-arms of the family “three pewits d’or proper on a field
gules,” if that be the correct heraldic way of putting it. To this
coat-of-arms belongs a little history. We were informed that one of the
ancestors of the family after a gallant fight in battle with the Scots
(name and date unremembered) fell on the field seriously wounded. After
long search, he was found by his relations, hidden from view in a bed of
reeds, their attention having been attracted to the spot by three pewits
hovering over it, uttering plaintive cries the while. From this
circumstance, the family adopted three pewits as their coat-of-arms,
likewise taking the name of Tyrwhitt, the latter being supposed to
represent the cry of that bird. Thereupon--in the spirit of inquiry that
ever besets us--we wanted to know what the name of the family was before
that eventful occasion, but could obtain no information on the point.
One really should not be so exacting about pretty traditions; it is an
artistic sin for the commission of which I now, too late, repent.
[Sidenote: _ANTIQUARIAN TREASURES_]
Then we returned to the rectory, where the rector most kindly showed us
some of his valued antiquarian treasures. One of these consisted of an
old parchment document written in Latin, and very beautifully written
too, the lettering being as black and as clear as when first done long
changeful centuries ago, for the deed bears the date of 1282. The
document, which was presumably drafted in the Abbey of Bardney, and was
signed in the chapter house thereof, gives particulars of the sale of a
serf with his family. A circumstance that throws a startling sidelight
on the condition of England at the time. Curiously enough, in a further
document, the same serf appears as rector of a neighbouring parish, and
even purchases land there in 1285. The true inwardness of all this it
would be interesting to discover.
Then the rector brought out a “witch-stone” from his treasure store to
show us; this he found hanging on a cottage door and serving as a charm
against all evil. It is merely a small flint with a hole in the centre,
through which hole was strung a piece of cord to hang it up with. A
“witch-stone” hung up on, or over, the entrance door of a house is
supposed to protect the inhabitants from all harm; in the same way do
not some enlightened people nail a horse-shoe over their door “for good
luck”? To ensure this “good-luck” I understand you must find a
horse-shoe “accidentally on the road” without looking for it; to procure
a “witch-stone” you must in like manner come upon a stone (of any kind)
with a hole through the centre when you are not thinking about any such
thing.
Then our host related to us a curious story that had been told to him as
true history. According to this, a certain Lincolnshire miser died (I
withhold, name, date, and place), and was duly placed in his coffin
overnight; but then a strange thing happened, next morning the body had
disappeared and its place was taken up with stones; it being presumed
that the Devil had made off with his body and had placed the stones in
the coffin in exchange. But one would have imagined that it was the
man’s spirit not his body that his Satanic Majesty desired--but there I
am always over-critical and too exacting about details. By the way this
reminds me we were told, that the Lincolnshire folk never call the Devil
openly by that familiar designation, but speak of him in an undertone,
as either “Samuel,” “Old Lad,” or “Bargus.”
Then we gleaned some particulars of old Lincolnshire folk-lore. Here,
for example, is an infallible charm to get power over the Devil, I mean
“Samuel.”
[Sidenote: _CHARMS_]
On St. Mark’s Eve, precisely at twelve o’clock, hold two pewter platters
one over the other, take these to where bracken grows, hold the platters
under the plants for the seeds to drop in, then you will find that the
seeds will go right through the top platter and be caught in the one
below; upon this “Samuel” will appear riding on a pig and tell you
anything you want to know. Here is another charm. Kill a hedge-hog and
smear two thorn-sticks with his blood, place these in a hedge-bottom and
leave them there for fourteen days, if not moved meanwhile you will have
your wish. I give these two charms as a fair sample of others, and I
think they will well suffice!
Leaving Wispington, we came in about half a mile to a spot where four
roads meet, a burial-place for suicides in times past, and reputed to be
the centre of Lincolnshire. Then driving on we reached Horsington. In
the register of burials here is a notice of “Bridget Hall buried in her
own garden A.D. 16.” She lived at Hail Farm near by, our friend told us,
and directed in her will that she should be buried in her own garden,
and that her body should be laid north and south, as she considered it
“too Popish to be buried east and west in a churchyard!” Some years ago
the then occupier of that farm, we further learnt, on digging a drain in
the same garden came upon a skeleton lying north and south; presumably
that of Bridget Hall.
In the vestry of the church here, according to our informant, used to be
preserved in a box a strange relic of other days and ways, in the shape
of a brass collar by which poor unfortunate lunatics were chained to a
wall. Where the collar has gone no one seems to know or care; however,
it has disappeared, to the grief of antiquaries. “Though I cannot show
you the collar, I can still show you something curious and interesting,”
said our friend. Whereupon he went into the churchyard, and after some
searching plucked a thistle; this did not seem anything wonderful to us,
not being botanists, but he pointed out to us that it was peculiarly
marked with unusual gray lines all over. This, we were informed, is
called the “Holy Thistle,” or “Mary’s Thistle,” and it used to be grown
by the monks at Kirkstead Abbey a few miles away, and even until a few
years ago specimens thereof might have been found in the fields that now
surround the abbey ruins, but the farmers had rooted them all up. Arthur
Thistlewood of the Cato Street conspiracy was born here at Horsington,
we learnt, his real name being Burnet. The birthplace of still another
famous man had we come across!
Next we drove on to Halstead Hall, an ancient building set back some way
from the road, showing signs of its former importance, but now, like so
many other ancient halls, converted into a pleasant farmstead. The hall
was moated, but the moat has been drained dry; the house is famous
locally for a daring and a remarkable robbery committed there in
1829,--an event that still affords subject for the country folk to talk
and enlarge about, at least we heard a good deal about it. The house, we
understood,
[Sidenote: _AN “ANTIQUARIAN DAY”_]
was broken into by a band of robbers who tied up the men-servants in a
stable, first gagging them; and then locked up the family and the maids
in a store-room. After this they sat down in the hall and feasted; the
repast over, they leisurely collected all the silver plate and money
they could find, and quietly departed. Three of the band were afterwards
captured and hanged at Lincoln; one of them, a certain Timothy Brammer,
when on the scaffold, kicked off his shoes, as he declared, to falsify
the prophecy of his friends that “he would die in his shoes”; the doing
of this appeared to afford him a grim sort of satisfaction. Then by the
hamlet of Stixwold we returned to Woodhall Spa after a very interesting
“antiquarian day.”
We left Woodhall Spa regretfully, and upon mounting our dogcart to
resume our tour the genial landlord of the Royal Hotel and most of the
guests thereof, whose acquaintance we had made during our too short
stay, came to the door to bid us goodbye and a prosperous journey,--yet
we had only arrived there a few days before, perfect strangers in the
land! Truly we had paid our modest bill, notwithstanding which we left
in debt to the landlord for all his kindness to us, for which no charge
was made!
It was a cloudy day; the barometer was falling; the wind blew wild and
warm from the west. “You’ll have rain, and plenty of it,” prophesied one
of the party; “better stay on till to-morrow.” The temptation was great,
but if we dallied thus on the way at every pleasant spot we should
hardly get home before the winter, so we hardened our hearts and drove
away. The rain did not actually come down, but we noticed great banks of
threatening gray storm-clouds in serried ranks gathered on the low
horizon that foreboded ill, with an advance guard of vast detached
masses of aqueous vapours, wind-woven into fantastic forms. The
sky-scape at any rate was interesting. “It looks stormy,” exclaimed we,
to a man, in response to a polite “Good-morning” he bade us as we passed
him by. “It do look so,” replied he, “but we won’t get any wet worth
speaking of whilst this wind keeps up.” This was reassuring. We have
generally found country folk more reliable about the immediate future of
the weather than the falling or rising of the barometer, for local
conditions are often an important factor in the case and modify the
barometer’s forecast.
About a mile on our way we noticed the slight remains of the once famous
and wealthy Cistercian Abbey of Kirkstead. These consist simply of a
tall fragment of the transept and some walling, standing alone in the
midst of a wide grass field. Beyond this, in an adjoining meadow, we
espied a most beautiful little Early English chapel, perfectly pure in
style. This was enclosed in a neglected-looking graveyard, the rusty
gates of which were carefully locked, so that we were, perforce, obliged
to climb over them to inspect the building, which was also carefully
locked up, and, I regret to add, very fast going to irretrievable decay
for the want of a little timely repair. Why, I wonder, is such a rare
architectural gem as this allowed to go thus the way of all uncared-for
things? Is there not a “Society for the Preservation of Ancient
Buildings” of interest? Can it do nothing to preserve for us this relic
of former days?
[Sidenote: _A CHANTRY CHAPEL_]
At first sight it appears curious to find such a beautiful chapel in
such close proximity to a lordly abbey; manifestly, however, the
building was a chantry chapel, presumably for the benefit of the soul of
the second Lord of Tattershall, as his armoured effigy is still within
the desolated chapel, which was, doubtless, erected near to the abbey
for the convenience and certainty of priestly service.
As we drove on, shortly the tall tower of Tattershall Castle stood forth
ahead of us, showing darkly gray against the stormy sky, a striking
object in the level landscape, powerfully asserting itself on the near
horizon, some three or four miles by winding road away, though possibly
a good mile less “as the crow flies.” Soon we came to the little river
Bain, which we crossed on a rather creaky wooden bridge--the scenery
about the river here is very pretty and most paintable--and found
ourselves in Coningsby, a remote Lincolnshire village, whose name,
however, has become well known from its having provided Lord
Beaconsfield with the title for his famous novel. Coningsby possesses a
fine old church, with a somewhat disappointing interior. We noticed in
the porch here a large holy-water stoup, opening both internally and
externally; above the porch is a parvise chamber of the usual type.
Within the church, at the top of a pillar of the north aisle, is a
carving of a “scold” gagged, just one of those subjects that delighted
the humour of the medieval sculptor to portray.
Then another mile brought us to Tattershall, a small hamlet dominated
and dwarfed by its truly magnificent church (more like a cathedral than
a village fane, and of a size out of all proportion to the present,
possibly also the past, needs of the parish) and by its stately old
castle, towering high above all around. The church we found open, but
desolate within, it being given over to workmen for much-needed repairs;
the pavement in places, we noticed, was fouled by birds and wet with
recent rain that had come in through holes in the roof. It was a
pathetic sight to behold the grand old church in its faded magnificence,
bare, cold, and colourless, robbed long ago of its glorious
stained-glass windows, that once made it the pride of the whole
countryside. Strange it seems that these splendid windows, that had
miraculously escaped the Puritan crusade, should have been allowed to be
carted away only the last century (in 1757) to enrich another church!
Truly the Puritans were not the only spoilers. Here in the north
transept is preserved a series of exceedingly fine and very interesting,
though mutilated and damaged, brasses, removed from their rightful place
in the chancel pavement some years ago, and now huddled together in a
meaningless way. One of these is of Lord-Treasurer Cromwell, the builder
of Tattershall church and castle. Another very fine brass is that of a
provost with a richly-adorned cope. These brasses will well repay
careful study.
Of Tattershall, besides some insignificant and
[Sidenote: _TATTERSHALL TOWER_]
much-ruined outbuildings, only the stately tower keep remains. A truly
magnificent specimen of medieval brick building, rectangular in shape
and embattled on the top; it is flanked on each angle by four octagonal
smaller towers. These were formerly provided with high-pitched roofs, of
which only one is now extant, though I find from an old engraving, after
a drawing by T. Allom, in my possession, that there were three of these
roofs existing in 1830. Round the top of the building runs a projecting
gallery supported by very bold and massive stone machicolations; these
give a special character to the structure, and enhance its effective
picturesqueness.
For a castle keep the open Gothic windows seem strangely inconsistent.
From this fact one can hardly imagine that it was intended for serious
defence, yet, on the other hand, there are plain traces of the double
moats that once surrounded the place, and were presumably supplied by
water from the river Bain, which suggest a considerable amount of
precaution against attack. It may be that the moats formed part of a
former stronghold, and were simply retained because they were there. The
castle is built of small and very hard brick, said by tradition to have
been imported from Flanders. Externally the structure, except for its
time-toned look, sundry weather scars, and loss of its three
turret-tops, is much the same as when the ancient builders left it;
within it is a mere shell, floorless and roofless. In the walls are some
fine and well-preserved carved stone mantelpieces, some of which are
adorned with heraldic devices, and a representation of a full purse,
symbolic, we imagined, of the post of Lord-Treasurer held by the owner.
Over one fireplace we noticed an inscription in Norman-French, _Nay le
Droit_, which, rightly or wrongly, we translated into “Have I not the
right?”
We ascended to the top of the keep, and beyond to the top of one of the
flanking turrets, by a spiral staircase of innumerable steps that is
happily complete and is contained within one of the angle towers. This
staircase is provided with a handrail ingeniously recessed in the side
wall. A Lincolnshire antiquary we afterwards met assured me that this is
the earliest handrail to a staircase known. I merely repeat what I have
been told on apparently good authority, but I must confess I should have
imagined that this convenience was of more ancient origin; however, in
this matter my antiquarian knowledge does not carry me far enough. From
the topmost tower we had a truly magnificent panorama presented to us;
we looked down upon a wide green world, enlivened by the gray gleam of
winding water-ways, and encircled by a horizon darkly, intensely blue.
Our visions ranged over vast leagues of flat Fenland and wild wold. On
one hand we could just trace the distance-dwarfed outlines of Lincoln’s
lordly minster, on the other the faint form of Boston’s famous “stump.”
Before leaving Tattershall we made a sketch of the glorious old tower
that uprises so grandly from the level land around, which sketch is
engraved with this chapter, and will give a better idea of the
[Illustration: TATTERSHALL TOWER.]
stately pile than pages of printed description possibly could. It is a
truly splendid specimen of medieval brick-work, and until I saw it I
considered Layer Marney tower in Essex the finest example of brick
building of the kind in England, Hurstmonceaux Castle in Sussex coming
next; but now I have no hesitation whatever in giving the first place to
Tattershall tower.
[Sidenote: _IN FENLAND AGAIN_]
After finishing our sketch we once more resumed our pleasant pilgrimage,
and soon found ourselves traversing a wide and wild Fenland district,
over which the west wind blew fresh and strong. In a mile or so we
crossed the river Witham, here running painfully straight between its
embanked sides, more like a mighty dyke or canal than anything else, as
though it were not to be trusted to flow as it would; but this is, more
or less, the nature of nearly all the Fenland streams. Then we had a
long stretch of level road, good for cycling, which faithfully followed
for miles the side of a great “drain” (unhappy term), the road not being
more than four feet above the water. So we came to Billinghay, a sleepy,
remote, medieval-looking town, or large village, set well away from the
busy world in the heart of the Fens; it gave us a feeling that it might
be a hundred miles withdrawn from modern civilisation. A more
dreamy--dreary, if you will--spot it would be hard to find in crowded
England, and for this reason, though hardly to be termed picturesque, it
fascinated us. It had such a quaint, old-world air, suggestive of untold
rest--a peacefulness that is hardly of to-day.
Passing through another stretch of level Fenland, wide and free, we
reached the pretty village of Anwick, where, as we drove through, we
noticed a charming thatched cottage with big dormer windows in the roof,
and walls so ivy-grown that we could not tell whether they were of
stone, or flint, or brick,--a picture by the way. Here also we noticed
three curious round buildings, each with a conical roof of thatch, from
the apex of which rose a circular chimney. One of these did duty as a
blacksmith’s shop. After Anwick the country gradually lost its fen-like
character, hedges took the place of dykes as fences, the streams were no
longer embanked, the land became mildly undulating, and suddenly we
found ourselves back again in “sleepy Sleaford.” Here the gray-haired
waiter recognised and welcomed us. While chatting with him as he laid
our evening meal, he told us that he had come to the inn for a day, and
had stayed on there for fifty years!
We left Sleaford early the next morning bound for Beckingham, and beyond
to either Newark or Grantham. We went to Beckingham, as our antiquarian
friend we had met at Horncastle had told us that the old hall there was
full of the most beautiful and interesting art treasures, including some
priceless tapestry. “I will write to the rector of the village,” said he
in the kindness of his heart; “he is a friend of mine, and I will tell
him you are coming, and ask him to show you over the hall; you must not
miss it. And if you go home through Grantham, as I expect you will, you
really must see Staunton Hall near there; it is a house with a history.
I will give you a letter of introduction to the owner in case you may be
able to use it.” And this he did thereupon! Such was an example of the
many kindnesses _pressed_ upon us in the course of our tour. And to be a
little previous, I may here state that on arriving at Beckingham, the
genial rector there would not hear of our proceeding farther that day,
but good-naturedly insisted upon our staying with him for the night as
his guests, stabling our horses besides! Could kindness to utter
strangers much farther go? “You’re heartily welcome,” said the rector
smiling, and most hospitably did he entertain us. But, as I have already
remarked, I am a little previous.
[Sidenote: _LINCOLNSHIRE UPLANDS_]
Shortly after leaving Sleaford we entered upon a wild, open country,
hilly and sparsely populated, a country that reminded us forcibly of the
Cotswolds, and one as different as possible from the level lowlands we
had traversed the previous day. Once more it was brought to our minds
that Lincolnshire is a land of hills as well as of fens! We were upon a
glorious stretch of uplands that rose and fell around us in mighty
sweeps, chequered by great fields, and enlivened here and there by
comfortable-looking stone-built farmsteads, each with its rambling
colony of outbuildings and corn-ricks gathered around. These, with a
stray cottage or two for farm-labourers, saved the prospect from being
desolate. Here water seems as scarce as it is over-abundant in the Fens!
Indeed, we were afterwards told that sometimes in dry summers water in
the district is a rarer article than beer! This may be a slight
exaggeration, though one gentleman who had a house in the neighbourhood
assured us, that owing to his having to fetch all the water used in his
establishment, he reckoned that in the year water was a dearer commodity
to him than ale!
It was a grand drive we had over those bracing uplands, and we were
sorry when this portion of our stage came to an end, and we found
ourselves descending from them through a deep rocky cutting, overhung
with shady trees, into the very charming village of Leadenham, that
struck us as being clean, neat, and picturesque, a dreamy spot yet not
dull. The houses there are well built of stone, and most of them have
pleasant gardens, and all of them look cheerful. In the church we
noticed some rather curious stained glass, but nothing else of special
interest.
Beyond Leadenham we entered upon a rich, level, and purely agricultural
country, the most notable feature of which was the large size of the
fields. A short drive brought us to Brant Broughton, another very
charming village, with an old church remarkable for the beauty and
richness of its interior decorations. In the porch of this we were
attracted by some curious lettering that we could make nothing of,
except two dates 1630 and 1636. The church is glorious with gilt and
colour, stained glass, and carvings; it looks all very Catholic and
artistic, and should please those who like an ornate place of worship.
Not only is the church beautiful here, but the churchyard is well kept.
These two things should ever go together, but, alas! such is the rare
exception.
[Sidenote: _A DISAPPOINTMENT_]
Then we had an uneventful drive on to Beckingham, where, as already
related, we received a hearty welcome. But the hall which we had been
sent here to see was bare! This was a disappointment as we had been led
to expect so much of it. The house itself was plain and of no
architectural merit whatever, not worth crossing even a road to see. The
rector informed us that the property was left by the late squire to the
second son of his eldest son, failing him to the second son of his
second son; and there has never been a second son to either of them. The
last squire but one was, according to report, somewhat of a character,
for on winter evenings he used to go the round of the village at eight
o’clock and act the part of the Curfew, calling out to the cottagers as
he went by that it was time to go to bed and put the fires out! What the
cottagers thought of this proceeding we did not learn.
The church of Beckingham is of no special interest, though, like most
ancient churches, it possesses some curious features, and contains a
quaint old Elizabethan clock in the tower, still keeping, more or less,
faithful time. In 1810, the then rector, we were told, used to pay his
workmen’s wages on a Sunday morning, and the village shops were kept
open on that day. Amongst the Entry of Marriages here, the following is
perhaps worthy of a passing note:--“Under the Directory for the Public
Worship of God, 1645, Robert Parker and Anne Vicars were married on the
24th of May 1647, according to the Directory.” Amongst the Entry of
Burials we made a note of the following:--“Thomas Parker was buried in
his mother’s garden, April 15, 1681.” It seems to have been not a very
uncommon thing at the period for persons to be buried in gardens, burial
in a churchyard being considered by some as flavouring too much of
Popery! This was the second record of such an interment we had come upon
within a week. Beckingham, we learnt, was five miles from a railway; it
looked a thousand to us, though when we came to think of it we had to
confess that we had never been so far from a railway in our lives,
except when on the mid-Atlantic! It used to be called
“Beckingham-behind-the-Times,” the rector said. Well, it does not look
as though it were much ahead of them now! It is a primitive place,
without the virtue of being picturesque.
Next morning our kind host with thoughtful intent took us out to call on
some of his oldest parishioners, the youngest of whom was eighty-two, in
case we might gather something of interest from their conversation. One
old man we visited was eighty-nine, and his wife was eighty-five. His
father and grandfather had lived and died in Beckingham, he told us, and
though close upon ninety he still managed to do all the work on a garden
of over an acre. He had only travelled in a train once, and that was to
London; he had only smoked once, and then he smoked five ounces of
tobacco right
[Sidenote: _CHATS WITH ANCIENT FOLK_]
off, and his tongue was sore for weeks afterwards; he could see no
pleasure in smoking. When he was a young man he used generally to walk
to Lincoln and back on Sundays, a distance of twenty-nine miles, besides
doing his regular work as a farm-labourer on week-days, for which he was
paid the exorbitant wage of from 7s. to 9s. a week, out of which he
actually managed to pay rent for a cottage and brought up a family of
twelve children. “My hours of toil were from six o’clock in the morning
till six o’clock in the evening, and I had to start from my home at five
and got back at seven.” We thought the expression “my hours of toil”
much to the point; but he did not appear to consider that his life had
been a particularly hard one, indeed he remarked that he could not
understand the present generation--“they can neither work nor walk,” and
he praised God that he could still work!
Then we visited a Mrs. Sarah Watson, who said she was born in 1805. When
she was a girl she saw a man hanging on a gibbet at Harby in
Lincolnshire, which stood on the spot where he committed a murder. She
used to go out to the gibbet with friends to watch which of the
murderer’s bones would fall off next! “Ah! them were the good old days,”
she exclaimed, “life were exciting then. Now I cannot walk; but I’m fond
of reading. I’ve read the Bible through from the first page to the last,
all save the hard names, and I’ve begun it afresh but have not got
through it again yet. I’ve read _Pilgrims Progress_; that _is_ an
interesting book, I did enjoy it.” There was something very pathetic in
our talks with these poor and patient old folk, and I could moralise
here were I inclined that way, but I prefer to leave my readers to do
this for themselves. I give the text and spare the sermon!