The Project Gutenberg eBook of Over Fen and Wold
Title: Over Fen and Wold
Author: James John Hissey
Release date: July 23, 2021 [eBook #65900]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
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List of Illustrations (etext transcriber's note) |
OVER FEN AND WOLD
BY
JAMES JOHN HISSEY
AUTHOR OF ‘A DRIVE THROUGH ENGLAND,’ ‘ON THE BOX SEAT,’
‘THROUGH TEN ENGLISH COUNTIES,’ ‘ON SOUTHERN ENGLISH ROADS,’ ETC.
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown road before me leading wherever I choose.
Whitman.
WITH FOURTEEN FULL PAGE (AND SOME SMALLER) ILLUSTRATIONS
BY THE AUTHOR
AND A MAP OF THE ROUTE
London
MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1898
All rights reserved
DEDICATED
TO THE MOST CHERISHED MEMORY OF
MY ONE-YEAR-OLD SON
WILLIAM AVERELL HISSEY
Then thou in God’s sweet strength hast risen as well;
When o’er thy brow the solemn darkness fell,
It was but one moment of repose.
May God’s love guard us till all death is o’er,—
Till thine eyes meet my sorrowing eyes once more,—
Then guard us still, through all eternity!
PREFACE
The following pages contain the chronicle of a leisurely and most enjoyable driving tour through a portion of Eastern England little esteemed and almost wholly, if not quite, neglected by the average tourist, for Lincolnshire is generally deemed to be a flat land, mostly consisting of Fens, and with but small, or no scenic attractions. We, however, found Lincolnshire to be a country of hills as well as of Fens, and we were charmed with the scenery thereof, which is none the less beautiful because neither famed nor fashionable. Some day it may become both. Lincolnshire scenery awaits discovery! Hitherto the pleasure-traveller has not found it out, but that is his loss!
We set forth on our tour, like the renowned Dr. Syntax, “in search of the picturesque,” combined with holiday relaxation, and in neither respect did we suffer disappointment. Our tour was an unqualified success. A more delightfully independent, a more restful, or a more remunerative way of seeing the country than by driving through it, without haste or any precisely arranged plan, it is difficult to conceive, ensuring, as such an expedition does, perfect freedom, and a happy escape from the many minor worries of ordinary travel—the only thing absolutely needful for the driving tourist to do being to find an inn for the night.
Writing of the joys of road-travel in the pre-railway days George Eliot says, “You have not the best of it in all things, O youngsters! The elderly man has his enviable memories, and not the least of them is the memory of a long journey on the outside of a stage-coach.” The railway is most excellent for speed, “but the slow old-fashioned way of getting from one end of the country to the other is the better thing to have in the memory. The happy outside coach-passenger, seated on the box from the dawn to the gloaming, gathered enough stories of English life, enough aspects of earth and sky, to make episodes for a modern Odyssey.” And so did we seated in our own dog-cart, more to be envied even than the summer-time coach-passenger, for we had full command over our conveyance, so that we could stop on the way, loiter, or make haste, as the mood inclined.
Sir Edwin Arnold says, “This world we live in is becoming sadly monotonous, as it shrinks year by year to smaller and smaller apparent dimensions under the rapid movement provided by limited passenger trains and swift ocean steamships.” Well, by driving one enlarges the apparent size of the world, for, as John Burrough puts it, “When you get into a railway carriage you want a continent, but the man in his carriage requires only a county.” Very true, moreover the man who steams round the world may see less than the man who merely drives round about an English county: the former is simply conveyed, the latter travels—a distinction with a vast difference!
In conclusion, I have only to express the hope that the illustrations herewith, engraved on wood from my sketches by Mr. George Pearson (to whom I tender my thanks for the pains he has taken in their reproduction), may lend an added interest to this unvarnished record of a most delightful and health-giving holiday.
J. J. HISSEY.
CONTENTS
| CHAPTER I | |
|---|---|
| PAGE | |
| The planning of our tour—Ready for the road—The start—One of Dick Turpin’s haunts—Barnet—A curious inn sign—In the coaching days—Travellers, new and old—A forgotten Spa—An ancient map | 1 |
| CHAPTER II | |
| Memorial of a great battle—An ancient fire-cresset—Free feasting!—Country quiet—Travellers’ Tales—Hatfield—An Elizabethan architect—An author’s tomb—Day-dreaming—Mysterious roadside monuments—Great North Road versus Great Northern Railway—Stevenage—Chats by the way—Field life—Nature as a painter—Changed times | 21 |
| CHAPTER III | |
| A gipsy encampment—A puzzling matter—Farming and farmers, past and present—An ancient market-town—A picturesque bit of old-world architecture—Gleaners—Time’s changes—A house in two counties—A wayside inn—The commercial value of the picturesque | 41 |
| CHAPTER IV | |
| Biggleswade—“Instituted” or “intruded”!—A poetical will—The river Ivel—A day to be remembered—The art of seeing—Misquotations—The striving after beauty—Stories in stone—An ancient muniment chest—An angler’s haunt—The town bridge—The pronunciation of names—St. Neots | 58 |
| CHAPTER V | |
| The charm of small towns—The Ouse—A pleasant land—Buckden Palace—A joke in stone—The birthplace of Samuel Pepys—Buried treasure—Huntingdon—An old-time interior—A famous coaching inn—St. Ives—A church steeple blown down!—A quaint and ancient bridge—A riverside ramble—Cowper’s country—Two narrow escapes | 73 |
| CHAPTER VI | |
| Cromwell’s birthplace—Records of the past—Early photographs—A breezy day—Home-brewed ale—Americans on English scenery—Alconbury Hill—The plains of Cambridgeshire—The silence of Nature—Stilton—A decayed coaching town—A medieval hostelry—A big sign-board—Old-world traditions—Miles from anywhere | 97 |
| CHAPTER VII | |
| Norman Cross—A Norman-French inscription—A re-headed statue—The friendliness of the road—The art of being delightful—The turnpike roads in their glory—Bits for the curious—A story of the stocks—“Wansford in England”—Romance and reality—The glamour of art—“The finest street between London and Edinburgh”—Ancient “Callises”—A historic inn—Windows that have tales to tell | 118 |
| CHAPTER VIII | |
| A picturesque ruin—Round about Stamford—Browne’s “Callis”—A chat with an antiquary—A quaint interior—“Bull-running”—A relic of a destroyed college—An old Carmelite gateway—A freak of Nature—Where Charles I. last slept as a free man—A storied ceiling—A gleaner’s bell—St. Leonard’s Priory—Tennyson’s county—In time of vexation—A flood—Hiding-holes—Lost!—Memorials of the past | 139 |
| CHAPTER IX | |
| A land of dykes—Fenland rivers—Crowland Abbey—A unique triangular bridge—Antiquaries differ—A mysterious statue—A medieval rhyme—A wayside inscription—The scenery of the Fens—Light-hearted travellers—Cowbit—A desolate spot—An adventure on the road—A Dutch-like town | 161 |
| CHAPTER X | |
| Spalding—“Ye Olde White Horse Inne”—An ancient hall and quaint garden—Epitaph-hunting—A signboard joke—Across the Fens—A strange world—Storm and sunshine—An awkward predicament—Bourn—Birthplace of Hereward the Wake—A medieval railway station!—Tombstone verses | 186 |
| CHAPTER XI | |
| A pleasant road—Memories—Shortening of names—Health-drinking—A Miller and his mill—A rail-less town—Changed times and changed ways—An Elizabethan church clock—A curious coincidence—Old superstitions—Satire in carving—“The Monks of Old” | 204 |
| CHAPTER XII | |
| A civil tramp—Country hospitality—Sleaford—A Lincolnshire saying—A sixteenth-century vicarage—Struck by lightning—“The Queen of Villages”—A sculptured anachronism—Swineshead—A strange legend—Local proverbs—Chat with a “commercial”—A mission of destruction—The curfew—Lost our way—Out of the beaten track—A grotesque figure and mysterious legend—Puzzling inscriptions—The end of a long day | 226 |
| CHAPTER XIII | |
| The Fenland capital—Mother and daughter towns—“Boston stump”—One church built over another—The company at our inn—A desultory ramble—An ancient prison—The Pilgrim Fathers—The banks of the Witham—Hussey Tower—An English Arcadia—Kyme Castle—Benington—A country of many churches—Wrangle—In search of a ghost—A remote village—Gargoyles—The grotesque in art | 248 |
| CHAPTER XIV | |
| Wind-blown trees—Marshlands—September weather—Wainfleet—An ancient school—The scent of the sea—The rehabilitation of the old-fashioned ghost—A Lincolnshire mystery—A vain search—Too much alike—Delightfully indefinite—Halton Holgate—In quest of a haunted house | 268 |
| CHAPTER XV | |
| In a haunted house—A strange story—A ghost described!—An offer declined—Market-day in a market-town—A picturesque crowd—Tombs of ancient warriors—An old tradition—Popular errors—A chat by the way—The modern Puritan—A forgotten battle-ground—At the sign of the “Bull” | 288 |
| CHAPTER XVI | |
| Six hilly miles—A vision for a pilgrim—The scenery of the Wolds—Poets’ dreams versus realities—Tennyson’s brook—Somersby—An out-of-the-world spot—Tennyson-land—A historic home—A unique relic of the past—An ancient moated grange—Traditions | 309 |
| CHAPTER XVII | |
| A decayed fane—Birds in church—An old manorial hall—Curious creations of the carver’s brain—The grotesque in excelsis—The old formal garden—Sketching from memory—The beauty of the Wolds—Lovely Lincolnshire!—Advice heeded!—A great character—A headless horseman—Extremes meet—“All’s well that ends well” | 329 |
| CHAPTER XVIII | |
| 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 | 352 |
| CHAPTER XIX | |
| “A precious piece of architecture”—Guest 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 | 372 |
| CHAPTER XX | |
| 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 | 395 |
| CHAPTER XXI | |
| A cross-country road—A famous hill—Another medieval inn—“The Drunken Sermon”—Bottesford—Staunton Hall—Old family deeds—A chained library—Woolsthorpe manor-house—A great inventor!—Melton Mowbray—Oakham—A quaint old manorial custom—Rockingham Castle—Kirby | 415 |
| CHAPTER XXII | |
| A well-preserved relic—An old English home—Authorities differ—Rooms on the top of a Church tower—A medieval-looking town—A Saxon tower—Bedford—Bunyan’s birthplace—Luton—The end of the journey | 436 |
| Appendix | 443 |
| Index | 445 |
ILLUSTRATIONS
OVER FEN AND WOLD
CHAPTER I
The planning of our tour—Ready for the road—The start—One of Dick Turpin’s haunts—Barnet—A curious inn sign—In the coaching days—Travellers, new and old—A forgotten Spa—An ancient map.
Our tour was planned one chilly winter’s evening: just a chance letter originated the idea of exploring a portion of Lincolnshire during the coming summer. Our project in embryo was to drive from London to that more or less untravelled land of fen and wold by the old North Road, and to return to our starting-point by another route, to be decided upon when we had finished our Lincolnshire wanderings. It was in this wise. The day had been wild and blustery, as drear a day indeed as an English December well could make. A bullying “Nor’-Easter” had been blowing savagely ever since the morning, by the evening it had increased to a veritable storm, the hail and sleet were hurled against the windows of our room, and the wind, as it came in fierce gusts, shook the casements as though it would blow them in if it could. My wife and self were chatting about former wanderings on wheels, trying fairly successfully to forget all about the inclement weather without, each comfortably ensconced in a real easychair within the ample ingle-nook of that cosy chamber known to the household as “the snuggery”—a happy combination of studio and library—the thick curtains were closely drawn across the mullioned windows to exclude any possible draughts, the great wood fire on the hearth (not one of your black coal fires in an iron grate arrangement) blazed forth right merrily, the oak logs crackled in a companionable way, throwing at the same time a ruddy glow into the room, and the bright flames roared up the wide chimney ever and again with an additional potency in response to extra vehement blasts without.
“What a capital time,” I exclaimed, “to look over some of the sketches we made during our last summer holiday; they will help us to recall the long sunny days, those jolly days we spent in the country, and bring back to mind many a pleasant spot and picturesque old home!” No sooner was the idea expressed than I sought out sundry well-filled sketch-books from the old oak corner cupboard devoted to our artistic belongings. True magicians were those sketch-books, with a power superior even to that
of Prince Houssain’s carpet of Arabian Nights renown, for by their aid not only were we quickly transported to the distant shires, but we also turned back the hand of Time to the genial summer days, and, in spirit, were soon far away repeating our past rambles, afoot and awheel, along the bracken-clad hillsides, over the smooth-turfed Downs, and across the rugged, boulder-strewn moors, here purple with heather and there aglow with golden gorse; anon we were strolling alongside the grassy banks of a certain quiet gliding river beloved of anglers, and spanned, just at a point where an artist would have placed it, by a hoary bridge built by craftsmen dead and gone to dust long centuries ago. Then, bringing forcibly to mind the old beloved coaching days, came a weather-stained hostelry with its great sign-board still swinging as of yore on the top of a high post, and bearing the representation—rude but effective—of a ferocious-looking red lion that one well-remembered summer evening bade us two tired and dust-stained travellers a hearty heraldic welcome. Next we found ourselves wandering down a narrow valley made musical by a little stream tumbling and gambolling over its rocky bed (for the sketches revealed to the mind infinitely more than what the eye merely saw, recalling Nature’s sweet melodies, her songs without words, as well as her visible beauties; besides raising within one countless half-forgotten memories)—a stream that turned the great green droning wheel of an ancient water-mill, down to which on either hand gently sloped the wooded hills, and amidst the foliage, half drowned in greenery, we could discern at irregular intervals the red-tiled rooftrees of lowly cottage homes peeping picturesquely forth. Then we were transported to an old, time-grayed manor-house of many gables and great stacks of clustering chimneys, its ivy-grown walls and lichen-laden roof being backed by rook-haunted ancestral elms; the ancient home, with its quaint, old-fashioned garden and reed-grown moat encircling it, seemed, when we first came unexpectedly thereon, more like the fond creation of a painter or a poet than a happy reality.
“Don’t you remember,” said my wife, as we were looking at this last drawing, “what a delightful day we spent there, and how the owner, when he discovered us sketching, at once made friends with us and showed us all over the dear old place, and how he delighted in the old armour in the hall, and how he told us that his ancestors fought both at Crecy and Agincourt—how nice it must be to have valiant ancestors like that!—and don’t you remember that low-ceilinged, oak-panelled bed-chamber with the leaden-lattice window, the haunted room, and how it looked its part; and afterwards how the landlady of the village inn where we baited our horses would have it that the ghost of a former squire who was murdered by some one—or the ghost of somebody who was murdered by that squire, she was not quite sure which—stalks about that very chamber every night. And then there were the curiously-clipped yews on the terrace, and the old carved sun-dial at the end of the long walk, and——” But the last sentence was destined never to be finished, for at that moment a knock came at the door, followed by a servant bringing in a letter all moist and dripping, a trifling incident, that, however, sufficed to transport us back again from our dreamy wanderings amongst sunny summer scenes to that drear December night—our fireside travels came to an abrupt end!
“What a night for any one to be out,” I muttered, as I took the proffered letter, glancing first at the handwriting, which was unfamiliar, then at the postmark, which bore the name of a remote Lincolnshire town, yet we knew no one in that whole wide county. Who could the sender be? we queried. He proved to be an unknown friend, who in a good-natured mood had written to suggest, in case we should be at a loss for a fresh country to explore during the coming summer, that we should try Lincolnshire; he further went on to remark, lest we should labour under the popular and mistaken impression (which we did) that it was a land more or less given over to “flats, fens and fogs,” that he had visitors from London staying with him with their bicycles, who complained loudly of the hills in his neighbourhood; furthermore, “just to whet our appetites,” as he put it, there followed a tempting list, “by way of sample,” of some of the good things scenic, antiquarian, and archæological, that awaited us, should we only come. Amongst the number—to enumerate only a few in chance order, and leaving out Lincoln and its cathedral—there were Crowland’s ruined abbey, set away in the heart of the Fens; numerous old churches, that by virtue of their remoteness had the rare good fortune to have escaped the restorer’s hands, and not a few of these, we were given to understand, contained curious brasses and interesting tombs of knightly warriors and unremembered worthies; Tattershall Castle, a glorious old pile, one of the finest structures of the kind in the kingdom; the historic town of Boston, with its famous fane and “stump” and Dutch-like waterways; Stamford, erst the rival of Oxford and Cambridge, with its Jacobean buildings, crumbling colleges, and quaint “Callises” or hospitals; Grantham, with its wonderful church spire and genuine medieval hostelry, dating back to the fifteenth century, that still offers entertainment to the latter-day pilgrim, and, moreover, makes him “comfortable exceedingly”; besides many an old coaching inn wherein to take our ease; not to mention the picturesque villages and sleepy market-towns, all innocent of the hand of the modern builder, nor the rambling manor-houses with their unwritten histories, the many moated granges with their unrecorded traditions, and perhaps not least, two really haunted houses, possessing well-established ghosts.
Then there was Tennyson’s birthplace at pretty Somersby, and the haunts of his early life round about, the wild wolds he loved so and sang of—the Highlands of Lincolnshire!—a dreamy land full of the unconscious poetry of civilisation, primitive and picturesque, yet not wholly unprogressive; a land where the fussy railway does not intrude, and where the rush and stress of this bustling century has made no visible impression; a land also where odd characters abound, and where the wise sayings of their forefathers, old folk-lore, legends, and strange superstitions linger yet; and last on the long list, and perhaps not least in interest, there was the wide Fenland, full of its own weird, but little understood beauties. Verily here was a tempting programme!
Pondering over all these good things, we found ourselves wondering how it was that we had never thought of Lincolnshire as fresh ground to explore before. Did we not then call to mind what a most enjoyable tour we had made through the little-esteemed Eastern Counties? though before starting on that expedition we had been warned by friends—who had never been there, by the way—that we should repent our resolve, as that portion of England was flat, tame, and intensely uninteresting, having nothing to show worth seeing, fit for farming and little else. Yet we remembered that we discovered the Langton Hills on our very first day out, and still retained a vivid impression of the glorious views therefrom, and all the rest of the journey was replete with pleasant surprises and scenic revelations. Truly we found the Land of the Broads to be flat, but so full of character and special beauty as to attract artists to paint it. “Therefore,” we exclaimed, “why should not Lincolnshire prove equally interesting and beautiful?” Perhaps even, like the once tourist-neglected Broads, the charms and picturesqueness of Lincolnshire may some day be discovered, be guidebook-lauded as a delightful holiday ground. Who knows? Besides, there was the drive thither and back along the old coachroads to be remembered; that of itself was sure to be rewarding.
The letter set us a-thinking, and the special shelf in our little library where sundry road-books and county maps are kept was searched for a chart of Lincolnshire. We were soon deeply engrossed with books and maps, and with their aid planned a very promising tour. By the time the old brass Cromwell clock on the bracket in a corner of the ingle-nook struck twelve we had finally decided, for good or ill, to try Lincolnshire; already we found ourselves longing for the summer time to come that we might be off!
But for all our longings and schemings it was the first of September before we actually set out on our journey; however, if this were unkindly delayed by the Fates, to make amends for such delay it must be confessed that they granted us perfect travellers’ weather, for during almost the whole time we were away from home there was not a day either too hot or too cold for open-air enjoyment, we had very little rain, and plenty of sunshine.
According to my experience, the month of September and the first week in October are generally the finest times in the year in England. During our journey we picked up, to us, many fresh bits of weather-lore and old-folk sayings; these are always welcome, and one of them runs thus: “It’s a foul year when there are not twenty fine days in September.” In that month truly the days are growing gradually shorter, but,
on the other hand, the dust—that one fly in the ointment of the driving tourist—is not so troublesome, indeed on this occasion it did not trouble us at all, nor is the heat so oppressive, nor the light so glaring as in July or August; and if the evenings draw in then, well, it only means an early start to have still a good long day before one, and the dusk coming on as you reach your night’s destination is a plausible excuse for indulging in a homelike fire in your apartment; and what a look of friendly familiarity a fire imparts to even a strange room, to say nothing of the mellow glow of candles on the table where your meal is spread! There is something indescribably cheery and suggestive of comfort, cosiness, and taking your ease about a fire-warmed and candle-lighted room! Truly there are certain compensating advantages in the early evenings! Did not Charles Lamb, writing to a brother poet, Bernard Barton, exclaim of July, “Deadly long are the days, these summer all-day days, with but a half-hour’s candle-light and no fire-light at all”?
Now, kind reader, please picture in your mind’s eye our comfortable and roomy dog-cart, carefully packed with all our necessary baggage, rugs, and waterproofs, the latter in case of cold or wet; our sketching and photographic paraphernalia; and even every luxury that long experience, gleaned from many former expeditions of a like nature, could suggest; not forgetting a plentiful supply of good tobacco of our favourite mixture, nor yet books to beguile a possible dull hour, which, however, never occurred. Amongst the books was a copy of Kingsley’s Hereward the Wake, as this treats of the Fenland heroes, as well as describes much of the lowland scenery of Lincolnshire. When I add that we included in our “kit” a supply of candles in case the light at some of the country inns should be too poor to read or write by comfortably, I think it may be taken for granted that nothing was forgotten that would in any way add to our ease or pleasure. It is astonishing how materially the thought of such apparent trifles adds to the enjoyment of an outing like ours. Even a good field-glass enhances the interest of a wide prospect, such as is continually met with during a lengthened driving tour, by enabling one the better to make out any special feature in the distant panorama.
Being thus prepared for the road, one cloudy September morning found us driving slowly out of the vast conglomeration of smoke-stained bricks and mortar that go to make the city—or county is it?—of London. Passing the Marble Arch, we reached the Edgware Road, up which we turned our horses’ heads, bound first for Barnet, taking Finchley on the way, and striking the Great North Road just beyond the latter place, which famous old coaching and posting highway we proposed to follow right on to “Stamford town” in Lincolnshire.
The morning was warm, cloudy, and rainless, though there had been a prolonged downpour during the night, but the barometer was happily on the rise, the “Forecast” in the paper prophesied only occasional showers, and we gladly noted that