At Norman Cross, a tiny hamlet with a suggestive name, situated about a mile on our way out of Stilton, there are the slight remains of the colony of barracks that were erected in the last century, wherein some thousands of French prisoners were confined during the Napoleonic wars. From Norman Cross we drove merrily along until we came to the pretty village of Water Newton, pleasantly situated by the side of the river Nen, or Nene,—for I find it spelt both ways on my map. Here the time-mellowed church, placed rather in a hollow a meadow’s length away from the road, attracted our attention, though why it especially did so I hardly know, for there was apparently nothing particularly noteworthy about it, at least not more so than any one of the other country fanes we had passed unregarded by that day. Moreover, our tastes for the moment did not incline to things ecclesiastical. But it is a fact, that now and then, without any definable cause, a certain spot, or place, will excite one’s interest and arouse within one a strong desire to stop and explore it: such sentimental, but very real, feelings defy all reasoning; they exist but cannot be explained or reduced to an argument.
So half-involuntarily we pulled up here. “We must see that old church,” we exclaimed, though wherefore the compulsion we did not inquire of ourselves; but we went, in spite of the fact that it was getting late and that we had some miles more to accomplish before we reached Stamford, our night’s destination. In the churchyard we noticed an ancient stone coffin and lid, but we had seen many such stone coffins and lids before, so that these did not specially appeal to us. Then walking round the building, in search of any object of interest, we happened to glance at the tower, and on its west side we espied, about a third of the way up, a recess with a carved stone figure of a man standing therein, the hands of which were clasped as though in prayer. This at once excited our curiosity. On looking further we observed an inscription below the figure apparently in Norman-French, but the lettering was so much defaced that it was difficult to decipher, a difficulty increased by the distance we were away from it; nevertheless, nothing daunted, we boldly made the attempt, and whilst puzzling over the spelling without, be it confessed, making much progress, the rector fortunately discovered us and kindly came to our aid. Existence is doubtless somewhat uneventful in this quiet spot, and possibly he was not averse to the scarce luxury of a chat with a stranger. I must say it seems to me that the life many of our refined and educated clergy lead in remote, out-of-the-way rural districts, is not altogether an enviable one, for, as a rule, the society of such is sadly restricted, and the conversational powers of the farmers and agricultural labourers are apt to be somewhat limited, not to say monotonous. Arcadia has its delights, but they are not academical. The chief charms of ruralism to some people are to be found second-hand in “open-air” books! Therein lies the difference between the genuine and the pseudo Nature lover.
AN ANCIENT INSCRIPTION
The church had been restored recently, so the rector informed us, and by aid of a ladder the inscription had been deciphered as follows:—
VOVS : KE : PAR
ISSI : PASSEZ
PVR : LE : ALME
TOMAS : PVR
DEN : PRIEZ
which I afterwards put into English thus, though I do not profess to be a Norman-French scholar, but in this case the translation seems manifest:—You that pass by here pray for the soul of Thomas Purden. This truly sounds rather like a command than begging a favour of a stranger, still I trust that this Thomas Purden had his demands amply gratified, and I further trust that his soul has benefited thereby—but what of the countless number of souls of other poor folk, equally dear to them, who had neither money nor influence to cause such an entreaty to be made public thus for their benefit? It was a hard faith that seemed to make it thus easier “for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God” than for a poor man, and calls to mind the Puritans’ dictum that Purgatory was invented to enrich the priest!
Who this Thomas Purden was the rector could not say, possibly now no one can: he may have been the founder of the church, though in that case one would have expected to find this memorial of him in the chancel, according to the prevailing custom; it appears to me more probable, therefore, that he was the builder of the tower, or possibly a benefactor of the church; but this is pure conjecture on my part, and conjectures must be taken for what they are worth.
The head of the statue, we were informed, was not the original one, which had decayed away or had been broken off, so that at the time of the restoration of the church the figure was headless: “However,” we were informed, “the builder, curiously enough, had some old carved stone heads knocking about his yard, and he fitted on one of these in place of the missing one”! Thus is the lot of the future antiquary made hard: but this is not so blameworthy as an instance that came under my notice on a previous tour, when I discovered that a mason had inserted an ancient dated stone over the porch of an old house he had been called in to repair, solely because he had it on hand and thought it looked ornamental there! This was enough to deceive the very archæological elect! I have to confess that the new head supplied to Master Thomas Purden appeared to be, from our point of view below, a good “ready-made” fit; but therein lies the greater pitfall for the future antiquary aforementioned.
“Now,” exclaimed the rector, “you will doubtless wonder why the figure with such an appeal to the public was placed on the side of the tower facing the meadows, and not on the side facing the road.” As a matter of fact this detail had not occurred to us; one cannot think of everything—though we tried to look surprised at the fact—then the rector continued, apparently pleased by our perspicacity: “Well, formerly the road went past the west front of the tower, close under it indeed, and crossed the river by a ford; if you look along the fields you can see traces of it even now.” So we looked and imagined we could see the traces in question, but our eyes, naturally, were not so accustomed to make them out as those of our informant. Then the rector, seeing the manifest interest we took in his church, most courteously devoted himself to us, and good-naturedly acted the part of guide, for which attentive civility we felt duly grateful. But that was not all, for after we had finished our inspection of the building, he, with thoughtful kindness, invited us into his snug rectory, hospitably intent on making us partake of afternoon tea; and this was by no means a solitary occasion of such a kindness shown to us—pressed upon us would be the more exact expression; utter strangers travelling by road!
THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS