Observing an ancient brass let into the pavement in the centre of the church, with an inscription
AN ANCIENT BRASS
thereon that looked interesting, we began to examine it; but the lettering was somewhat indistinct from wear, besides being in those puzzling straight up-and-down lines so much favoured in the fifteenth century, and we found considerable difficulty in deciphering it in its entirety, a difficulty enhanced by the dim light at the moment. The strange lady was unable to help us here, but promised, if we would give her our name and address, that she would send us a rubbing of the brass. The kindness of strangers never seemed to fail us, for on our return home we duly found a letter awaiting us with a careful rubbing of the brass enclosed therein. Provided with this, all at our leisure, we read the inscription thus:—Orate p’ aīa Albini d’Enderby qui fecit fieri istam ecclesiam cum campanile qui obiit in Vigilia sc̄i Mathie ap̄o Āº Dn̄i MCCCCVII., which we roughly did into English: “Pray for the soul of Albinus of Enderby, who caused to be made this church, with bell-tower, who died in the vigil of St. Mathius the apostle, 1407.”
The ancient font here is decorated with some curious devices carved in shields; the chief of these we made out—rightly or wrongly, for I should not like to be considered authoritative on the point—to be the Virgin holding the dead Christ; a man, possibly David, playing on a harp; a hart with a tree (query “the tree of life”) growing out of his back, which tree the hart is licking with his tongue; a cross surrounded by a crown of thorns, and others. This font was raised above the pavement by a stone slab, a slab that, I regret to add, as is all too plainly manifest, once formed a notable tombstone, for it is finely incised with a figure and inscription, in great part now covered over by the font! This fine slab, originally oblong in shape, has at some time been deliberately broken in half in order to make it into a square, and further than this, the four corners of the square thus constructed have their ends chiselled away so as to form an octagonal base, more for the saving of space and convenience than ornament, we imagined. This plundering the dead in such a barefaced fashion, even when done for religious purposes, is not a pleasant thing to contemplate.
In one of the windows of the church is preserved a fragment of ancient stained glass that possibly possesses a history, as it represents the armorial bearings of Crowland Abbey, namely, three knives and three scourges, and may have come from there. Amongst the tombs we noticed a mural monument in the chancel to Andrew Gendney, Esquire, who is represented in armour, with his wife and children. This monument, bearing date of 1591, still shows traces of its original colouring though over three centuries old.
Near the church stands a fine elm tree with a long low projecting branch close to the ground. This branch, we were told, was long enough to seat all the inhabitants of the parish, which shows how extraordinarily long the branch is, or how few the inhabitants of this remote hamlet are—we understood the latter was the case.
We next drove to “the old manorial hall” of Harrington, our road being bordered by fine old branching oaks and leafy elms, the shade of which was very grateful; for though September, the sun shone down in a manner worthy of the dog-days. Reaching our destination, and armed with our introduction, we at once made our way to the rectory. Here we readily obtained the keys both of the church and the Hall, and were provided, moreover, with a servant to act as guide.
Externally Harrington Hall is a bright, sunny-looking, red-brick building, mostly of the Jacobean period, but much modernised, even to the extent of sash-windows. Over the entrance is a stone slab let into the brick-work, and carved with a coat-of-arms. By the side of this is a sun-dial, with the date 1681 engraved thereon. On either side of the doorway are mounting-blocks with steps, very convenient for horse-riders, so much so that I often wonder why they have so generally disappeared.
A DESERTED HALL
The old house was tenantless and empty, and wore a sadly forsaken look. In one respect it was the very reverse of Somersby Grange, for while as cheerful in outward appearance as the latter was sombre, within the deserted hall was gloomy and ghost-like, with dismal, if large, bed-chambers leading one into the other in an uncomfortable sort of way, and huge cupboards like little windowless rooms, and rambling passages—a house that had manifestly been altered from time to time with much confusion to its geography. “A sense of mystery” hung over all, and suggested to us that the place must be haunted. But here again, though the very house for a ghost to disport himself in, or to be the home of a weird legend, it was unblest with either as far as we could make out. A promise of romance there was to the eye, but no fulfilment!