Over Fen and Wold

by James John Hissey

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.

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.”