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?
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
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.”