Vermis Sum.”
But he was a great man and lives in history. Frank Osborne, the author and moralist, and contemporary of Speaker Lenthall, also dictated the epitaph on his simple tombstone at Netherworton in Oxfordshire, in which he pertinently remarks:
I envy not those graves which take up room
Merely with Jetts and Porphyry: since a tomb
Adds no desert.
After all, simplicity and brevity of epitaph appeal more to the heart of man than fulsome eulogy or “monumental show.”
In the chancel wall, immediately to the left of the east window, is a tall narrow niche. The rector said he did not know the original purpose of this, unless it were for ornament. The niche was too tall for a statue, and we imagined from its form that probably it was intended, of old, to receive the processional cross—the pre-Reformation churches being, I believe, provided with a recess or a locker for this purpose. A specimen of the latter, with the ancient ornamented oak door still in position, may be found in the church at Barnby in Suffolk.
Then, bidding good-bye to the courteous and hospitable rector, we once more resumed our pleasant pilgrimage, and, passing through an eye-refreshing and peace-bestowing country of green meadows, waving woods, and silvery streams, we reached the
WEATHER SIGNS
ancient town of Sleaford just as the sun was setting red in the west, a fact, according to the well-known proverb—which however we have not found to be perfectly reliable—that should ensure fine weather for the morrow—“Red at night is a shepherd’s delight; red in the morning is a shepherd’s warning.” Well, I am not a shepherd, but speaking from my experience as a road traveller, who naturally studies the weather, I have frequently noted that a red morning has been followed by a gloriously fine and sunny day. When, however, the sky is a wan yellow at sunrise, and especially if the wind be south-westerly, then you may expect rain before evening with some degree of certainty; but of all things to dogmatise about, the English weather is the most dangerous.
As we entered Sleaford we noticed a monument to a local celebrity, the designer of which we imagined had been inspired by the excellent example of a Queen Eleanor’s Cross. The structure certainly adds interest to the street in which it stands, and this is a great deal more than can be said of most memorials of notables in the shape of statues, which, perched high on pedestals, are generally prominent eyesores that a long-suffering community has to put up with. Close to this monument was a pump, below which a basin was inscribed, “Every good gift is from above.” The quotation did not strike us as the most appropriate that might be chosen, as the pump was erected for the purpose of obtaining water from below.
Sleaford, on the day we arrived, offered a great contrast to the slumberous quiet of Falkingham, for it was the evening of the annual sheep fair, and groups of agriculturists were scattered about engaged in eager conversation, and flocks of sheep were being driven out of the town, with much shouting, dog-barking, and commotion, and farmers in gigs or on horseback starting back home added to the general restlessness. Indeed, after the deep tranquillity of the lonely country roads we had traversed that day, Sleaford seemed a place of noise and bustle. Next morning, however, we found the streets quiet enough, as we remarked to a stranger in the stable-yard. “Yes,” he said, “Sleaford is quiet enough. It sleeps more or less all the year, but wakes up once for the annual fair. You mayn’t have heard the saying, ‘Sleaford for sleep, Boston for business, Horncastle for horses, Louth for learning.’” “Perhaps,” responded we, mindful of yesterday, “as it is Horncastle for horses, it should be Sleaford for sheep, not ‘sleep.’” The two words sound very much alike. But our suggestion was scorned.