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.
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.
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.