neglected by the tourist, and the few who do find their way thither appear to come attracted solely by the fame of Burleigh House, one of the “show” mansions of the country, merely treating old-world Stamford, with all its wealth of antiquarian and archæological interest, as a point of departure and arrival. For Stamford—whose name is derived we were told from “Stone-ford,” as that of Oxford is from “Ox-ford” over the Isis—was erst a university town of renown whose splendid colleges rivalled both those of Oxford and Cambridge, and even at one period threatened to supersede them, and probably would have done so but for powerful and interested political intrigues. Of these ancient colleges there are some small but interesting remains. Spenser in his Faerie Queene thus alludes to the town:—
Stamford, though now homely hid,
Then shone in learning more than ever did
Cambridge or Oxford, England’s goodly beams.
But besides the remains of its ancient colleges, Stamford possesses several fine old churches of exceptional interest, a number of quaint old hospitals, or “callises” as they are locally called—a term derived, we were informed by a Stamford antiquary we met by chance, from the famous wool merchants of “the Staple of Calais” who first founded them here—the important ruins of St. Leonard’s Priory, crumbling old gateways, bits of Norman arches, countless ancient houses of varied character, and quaint odds and ends of architecture scattered about.
At Stamford we patronised the ancient and historic “George Inn,” that still stands where it did of yore—an inn which has entertained generations of wayfarers of various degrees from king to highwayman; and, as in the past, opens its doors to the latter-day traveller, who, however, seldom arrives by road. It was quite in keeping with the old traditions of the place that we should drive into its ancient and spacious courtyard and hand our horses over to the ostler’s charge, whilst we two dust-stained travellers, having seen our baggage taken out of the dog-cart, should follow it indoors, where the landlord stood ready to welcome us, just as former landlords on the self-same spot might have welcomed former travellers posting across country. During the month of August 1645, Charles I. slept a night here on his way south from Newark; it was Scott’s favourite halting-place on his many journeys to and from London—and many other notables, of whom the list is long, have feasted and slept beneath the sign of the “George” at Stamford. “Walls have ears,” says the old familiar proverb: would that the walls of the “George” had tongues to tell us something of the people who have rested and feasted within its ancient chambers, to repeat for our benefit the unrecorded sayings, witticisms, stories of strange adventures on the king’s highway, and aught else of interest that may have passed their lips. Marvellous men were some of those ancestors of ours, who would sit outside a coach all day, and sit up half the night consuming their three bottles of port, yet rise in the morning headacheless and proceed with their journey smiling. There must be some wonderful recuperative virtue about life in the open air, otherwise they could hardly have led the life they did. Up early, and to bed late, with port, or punch, nearly every night, and sometimes both—and yet we have no record of their complaining of dyspepsia! Again I repeat they were marvellous men; peace be to their ashes.
RECORDS ON GLASS
In many a coaching inn they have left mementoes of themselves by scratching their names with dates, and sometimes with added verses, on the window panes of the rooms: these always deeply interest and appeal to me; they tell so little and so much! The mere scratches of a diamond on the fragile glass have been preserved all those years, they look so fresh they might have been done only a month ago. Nowadays it is only the “’Arrys” who are supposed to do this sort of thing, but in the olden times even notable personages did not deem it beneath their dignity thus to record their names. On the window of the room in which Shakespeare was born at Stratford-on-Avon may be found the genuine signature of the “Wizard of the North,” in company with those of other famed and unfamed men and women. Where walls are silent, windows sometimes speak! I have noted dates on these of nearly two centuries ago; the names of the writers being thus unwittingly preserved whilst perchance they have weathered away from their tombstones. Such records as the following which I select haphazard from my note-book are interesting:—“Peter Lewis 1735. Weather-bound,” or “G. L. stopped on the heath by three men,” or again, “T. Lawes, 1765. Flying machine broken down, Vile roades.” Suggestive comments that one can enlarge and romance upon. Now and then these old-time travellers instead of leaving their names behind them indulged their artistic propensities by drawing, more or less roughly, representations of coats-of-arms, and crests, or else gibbets, highwaymen, and such like. These old records on glass are an interesting study, and are mostly to be found on bedroom windows; but panes get broken in time, or destroyed during alterations, or the old houses themselves get improved away, so these reminders of past days and changed conditions of life and travel gradually grow fewer: it is therefore wise of the curious to make note of them when they can.
In the coffee-room of the “George” we met a pleasant company consisting of three belated cyclists, and with them we chatted of roads, of scenery, and many things besides till a late hour, when we retired to rest and found that we had allotted to us a large front bedroom. We could not help wondering how many other travellers, and who they might have been, the same chamber had sheltered since the inn was first established in the years gone by. Probably—it was even more than probable—Scott himself may have slept in the very chamber we occupied. Verily a glamour of the long ago, a past presence, seems to hang over this ancient and historic hostelry! It is haunted with memories!
CHAPTER VIII
A picturesque ruin—Round about Stamford—Browne’s “Callis”—A chat with an antiquary—A quaint interior—“Bull-running”—A relic of a destroyed college—An old Carmelite gateway—A freak of Nature—Where Charles I. last slept as a free man—A storied ceiling—A gleaner’s bell—St. Leonard’s Priory—Tennyson’s county—In time of vexation—A flood—Hiding-holes—Lost!—Memorials of the past.
Early in the morning we started out to explore the town; first, however, we found our way to Wothorpe a short mile off, from whence there is a fine view of Stamford. At Wothorpe are the picturesque ruins of a small mansion built by the first Earl of Exeter: “to retire out of the dust,” as he playfully remarked, “whilst his great house at Burleigh was a-sweeping.” The deserted and time-rent mansion is finely built of carefully squared stones and has four towers one at each corner, square at the base, but octagonal at the top; these towers, judging from an old print we saw in a shop window at Stamford, were formerly capped by shaped stone roofs, which in turn were surmounted by great weathercocks: the towers when complete must have been quite a feature in the structure, and have given it a special character—a touch of quaintness that is always so charming and attractive in a building. The ruins are weather-toned and ivy-grown and make a very pretty picture, though only the outer crumbling walls remain. Wothorpe has arrived at such a pathetic state of decay as to be almost picturesquely perfect, and pleads to be admired! Man has ruined it, but nature left to work her own sweet will has beautified it, for she has draped it with greenery, has tinted its stones, and broken up its rigid symmetry. It is a sad thought that a building should be more beautiful in ruin than in its perfect state, but, as Byron says,