Over Fen and Wold

by James John Hissey

A HAPPY CONCEIT

hotel we took a look at the church, as it was on our road, and the door happened to be open. We descended into the building down two or three steps, from which we concluded, rightly as we discovered, that it was dedicated to John the Baptist. As the late Rev. R. S. Hawker, the famous Cornish vicar, says, “Every church dedicated to John the Baptizer is thus arranged. We go down into them, as those about to be baptized of John went down into the water.” The church is well worth inspection; but what chiefly interested us in it was a stone sun-dial let into the north wall with the following inscription below:—“Newton, aged nine years, cut with his penknife this dial.” Above, one of the corbels is carved with the likeness of Sir Isaac Newton, a delightful conceit that pleased us greatly. An old body we spoke to in the church amused us not a little by exclaiming, “Yes, he were a wonderful man Sir Isaac to invent gravitation!” “Ah!” we replied, “however did the world get on before he invented it?” But our satire fell harmless. “Oh, very well,” she responded; “it b’aint no good of to nobody as far as I can see.” And with this we took our departure, and returned to our inn.

After a hurried glance at our map before starting, we decided to drive across country to Melton Mowbray, and to stop there the night. On inquiring about the way we were informed that we could not miss it, as it was well “sign-posted,” a fresh expression to us. Just as we started the rain came down. Lincolnshire had greeted our coming with sunny smiles, and now she bade us good-bye in tears,—that was the poetical way of looking at the unpromising state of the weather! Of the road on to Melton Mowbray I cannot say much, as it rained the whole way persistently. In spite of this the country struck us as being distinctly pretty in parts, especially at one spot where we dipped down through woods to a ford over a shallow but fairly wide river, across which was a very Welsh-like bridge for pedestrians. On a fine day this would have been an ideal spot to make a sketch or to take a photograph of. Even seen through the rain its picturesqueness impressed itself so on us that during the evening we made a very fair memory-sketch of the quiet nook.

It rained all that night at Melton Mowbray, at least the ostler said it did, and we took his word for it, as we were fast asleep. Anyhow it was raining in the morning when we awoke; and though we waited till eleven o’clock before resuming our journey, the weather had not the grace to improve, so we set forth in the rain bound for Oakham on our way to Uppingham. As we drove on the weather improved. Now and again the sun struggled out for a time, and the cloud-scapes above and the strong play of light and shade on the hilly landscape below were very effective. The country was wild and beautiful, with a beauty of hill and dale, of wood, and hedgerowed lane that called Devonshire to remembrance. The only place we passed through on the way of any importance was the straggling and very pretty village of Langham. Shortly after this we found ourselves in Oakham,

A CURIOUS TOLL

which struck us as a clean, neat little town with thatched and slab-roofed houses in its streets, and a charming old butter-cross set away in a quiet corner, with a sun-dial on the top and the ancient stocks below. Near to the butter-cross stands the banqueting-hall of Oakham Castle, all that now remains of that stronghold. Within, the walls of this hall are hung round with a number of gigantic horse-shoes, some gilt, and nearly all with the names of titled people painted on them. On inquiring the wherefore of this, we were told that the custom of the Lord of the Manor anciently exerted to show his authority, and still maintained, is to claim a horse-shoe from every peer who passes through the town for the first time. Instead of real horse-shoes, in every instance but one, large imitation shoes to hang up have been purposely made. The one real horse-shoe is that of Lord Willoughby d’Eresby, dated 1840. The oldest shoe is that of Queen Elizabeth. Certainly the custom is a curious one, and it would be interesting to trace its origin.

From Oakham we had a delightful drive of six miles on to Uppingham. The weather had cleared up, and the sun was shining quite cheerfully again. There was a freshness and a fragrance in the air that was very grateful to us. Our road was level at first, then we had a stiffish climb up to Manton-on-the-Hill, a forsaken-looking village of stone-built houses set on a height and grouped around an ancient church that looked so pathetically old. Most of the houses there were gray with age and picturesque besides, with porches, mullioned windows, and moulded gables, one of the latter being surmounted by a quaint sun-dial. We just took a glance at the interior of the crumbling church which was interesting; but an old woman we discovered there sweeping the floors interested us even more, for humanity, when characteristic, is ever better worth study than mere inert matter. She concluded her long life’s story by saying that she was seventy-two, and cleaned the church and blew the organ, as it was a little help towards living, her husband being paralysed, “and he’s only seventy-seven.” Just as though it were a reproach to him his being helpless at that early age!

A “give and take” road with more takes than gives, it seemed to us, brought us to Uppingham, where we found a comfortable hotel. Here, while the daylight lasted, we took a stroll round the town, and admired the new school buildings in the course of erection. Then we went into one or two shops to make a few purchases. At the first of these we remarked to the shopman, “You’ve got a fine school here.” His reply rather took us aback. “Yes, we have,” said he. “It’s all school here now and no town; we’re as school-ridden as Spain is priest-ridden,” and he spoke like a man who was sorely vexed in his soul about something; but he would not condescend to any explanations, so we left him and went to a stationer’s shop for some trifle. Here we saw a photograph of a fine ruined mansion that attracted us from its manifest former importance, so we inquired where it was. “Oh, that’s Kirby,” we were told; “it’s near Rockingham, and some seven miles from here. It’s well worth seeing. It was once nearly purchased for a residence for George III. It’s a grand old place all falling to ruin, as you see.” Upon this we purchased the photograph, and determined to visit Kirby the next day, as we found we could take it on our way by a slight detour.

A CHARMING VILLAGE

It was a grand drive over a wild open country to Rockingham, a charming village nestled at the foot of a wooded hill, which was crowned by a modernised feudal castle known locally as “the Windsor Castle of the Midlands.” Here, with our usual good-fortune, we were permitted to see the gardens and the interior of the castle. We entered the courtyard through a great arched gateway, guarded on either hand by two massive round towers built in the Edwardian age, and as strong and substantial now as then. First we strolled round the old garden enclosed by a high stone wall. Alongside of this wall runs a broad terrace, from which elevated position looking down we had a glorious and space-expressing prospect over the wild Welland valley, bounded to the north by the wilderness of Lincolnshire hills showing green, gray, and faintly blue.