A SPORTING SIGN
beam in full cry; the fox apparently just escaping into the thatched roof of the inn, the hounds immediately following, whilst the merry huntsmen bring up the rear. This very sporting sign shows well, being strongly silhouetted against the sky; it is full of spirit and movement, and has the charm of originality.
I have forgotten to say we were told that at the village of Ketton, in the near neighbourhood of Stamford, a gleaners’ bell used to be rung in due season, as well as the curfew; before the first ringing of the former no one might glean in the fields, nor after the second ringing was any one allowed to continue their gleaning under the penalty of a fine, which went to the ringers. I trust I need not apologise for making note of these old customs, from time to time, as I come upon them. The church at Ketton is considered to be the most beautiful in the county; it has a central tower with a broach spire, and has been compared with St. Mary’s at Stamford: the saying being that the latter “has the more dignity, but Ketton the greater grace.”
Before resuming our journey I may note that in the heyday of the coaching age, I find from an old “Way Bill” that the time allowed for the mail-coach from London to Stamford—89¼ miles—was 9 hours and 20 minutes, including changes.
Early next morning we set out from our ancient hostelry bound for Spalding, with the intention of visiting the once far-famed Fenland abbey of Crowland on the way, though from our map it appeared that the roads and the dykes were rather mixed up, and our route thither was not at all easy to trace; nor was the information we obtained at Stamford very helpful: “It’s a good road as far as Market Deeping,” we were told, “but beyond that you’ll have to find your way.” The worthy landlord of the “George” came to the door to see us off, and right sorry we felt to leave our genial host, comfortable quarters, and the interesting and historic town of Stamford that bade us such a pleasant welcome into Lincolnshire.
In about a mile, or less, as we drove on we espied some picturesque and important-looking ecclesiastical ruins; these we found to be the remains of the nave of St. Leonard’s Priory, now debased, part into a barn and part into a shed; and what a substantial barn the solid Norman work made! fit to last for centuries still, if let alone; and the shed upheld by the massive Norman pillars, between which the shafts of farm carts, and sundry agricultural implements peeped forth—what a grand shed it was! It is not always that a farmer has his out-buildings constructed by Norman masons! The west front of the Priory is happily little changed from its original state, the great arched doorway and windows above being built up, but nothing more; the arches are elaborately decorated, and suggest that when the whole was complete it must have been a fine specimen of Late Norman work. What a pity it is that such picturesque and interesting relics of the past are not carefully preserved as ruins, instead of being patched up and altered to serve purely utilitarian purposes. The ruin of a fine building like this, raised by skilled and pious hands for the glory of God and not for the profit of man, should be a prized possession and left to Mother Nature’s gentle care, which is far less destructive than man’s hands—even the restorers! There are many things to be done in the world, but you cannot convert the nave of a stately priory, hallowed by the worship within its walls of departed humanity, into a barn and a cart-shed consistently!
A SUNSHINY DAY
Now we entered upon a very pleasant stretch of greenful country, seeming doubly pleasant under the glamour of that soft sunshiny morning—a morning upon which the atmosphere was permeated with light, causing the grassy meadows and leafy trees to put on a rare, rich golden-green, as though glowing with brightness. Only under special conditions of weather and time shall you look upon scenery thus glorified. To slightly alter Wordsworth, such is—
The light that seldom is on sea or land,
The consecration, and the Poet’s dream.
The blue sky overhead flecked with the lightest of summer clouds, the buoyant air, the sun-steeped landscape, the general brightness and cheerfulness of the day, impressed us with an indefinable but very real joyousness and light-heartedness. We felt in truth, just then, that the world was a very pleasant place to live in, and that especial corner of it known as England the pleasantest part thereof. Then, as we drove lazily on half lost in the luxury of day-dreaming—a very lotus-eaters’ land it seemed to be that soft and slumberous morning—some chance drifting of thought called to mind William Hazlitt’s remarks anent a walking tour, a recreation in which he delighted: “Give me,” says he, connoisseur of good things that he was, “the clear blue sky over my head, and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and a three hours’ march to dinner ... then I laugh, I leap, I sing for joy.” Well, we could not readily run, nor yet leap, as we were driving and in a quiet mood moreover, neither did we sing for joy; not that we took our pleasures sadly, but rather for the hour did we delight in a drowsy progress soothed into untold rest by the peace-bestowing quietude that prevailed all around: our happiness was too real to need any outward display, which but too often disturbs the deep repose of absolute content. Such a sensation of inward satisfaction with oneself and one’s surroundings comes not every day, not even with searching after, but when it comes it makes one thankfully realise the full meaning of—