Over Fen and Wold

by James John Hissey

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.

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

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!