Over Fen and Wold

by James John Hissey

A HORSE-DEALING STORY

it proved afterwards, owing to the hurry in jotting them down, I could not make much of! One story amongst the number, however, I managed to take down in a readable form. This relates to an incident that took place last century at one of the great Horncastle horse fairs, a story that we were assured was “absolutely authentic.” I grant, for an authentic story, that the date is rather vague, but the exact one was given us, only I cannot make out my figures beyond 17—, but this is a detail; however, the vicar’s name is stated, which may afford a clue as to about the year. I transcribe the story from my notebook verbatim, just as we took it down:—Horse sold in Horncastle Church. Two dealers at the great horse fair in 17—tried to sell a horse to the vicar, Dr. Pennington. At their breakfast one Sunday morning the two dealers made a bet of a bottle of wine, one against the other, that he would sell his horse to the vicar first. Both attended divine service, each going in separately and unknown to the other. One sat by the door, intending to catch the vicar as he came out; the other sat close under the pulpit. As the vicar descended from the pulpit after a learned discourse, the dealer under the pulpit whispered, “Your reverence, I’m leaving early to-morrow morning, you’d better secure that mare.” The vicar whispered reply, “I’ll have her.” There is perhaps not very much in the story, but as we were assured by our clergyman friend that it was true, it may be repeated as showing the free and easy manners of the period, when at sundry times rural weddings and christenings had to be put off from one day to another, because the parson was going out hunting! Yet somehow those old parsons managed to get beloved by their parishioners. They did not preach at them too hard, nor bother the rustic heads over-much about saints’-days, fasts, and feasts, and not at all about vestments, lights on the altar, or incense.

Bull-baiting, we learnt, used to be a favourite sport in Horncastle, and until a few years ago the ring existed in the paved square to which the unfortunate bull was attached. My informant knew an old woman who was lifted on the shoulder of her father to see the last bull baited in 1812. He also related to us a story of a famous local event, “the racing the moon from Lincoln to Horncastle,” a distance of twenty-one miles; how that one day a man made a bet that he would leave Lincoln on horseback as the moon rose there, and arrive in Horncastle before it rose in that town, which apparently impossible feat may be explained thus—Lincoln being situated on a hill, any one there could see the moon rise over the low horizon some considerable time before it could be seen rising at Horncastle, the latter place being situated in a hollow and surrounded by heights. It appeared the man raced the moon, and lost by only two minutes, which exact time he was delayed by a closed toll-gate—and a very provoking way of losing a bet, we thought! Amongst other minor things we were informed that the town cricket-field is still called the “wong,” that being the Anglo-Saxon for field; also that just outside Horncastle the spot on which the

THE PICTURESQUE CARED FOR

May Day games were held is still known as Maypole Hill. One old and rather picturesque hostel in the town, the “King’s Head” to wit, is leased, we learnt, on condition that it shall be preserved just as it is, which includes a thatched roof. I would that all landlords were as careful of the picturesque!

Respecting some curious old leaden coffins that had been recently unearthed whilst digging foundations in the outskirts of Horncastle, of which the date was uncertain, though the orientation of the coffins pointed to the probability of Christian burial, we were assured that if the lead were pure they would doubtless be of post-Roman date; but, on the other hand, if the lead contained an admixture of tin, they were almost certain to be Roman. A fact for the curious in such things to make note of; according to which, however, it seemed to us, it would be needful to have ancient lead analysed in order to pronounce upon its date. I am glad to say that my antiquarianism has not reached this scientific point, for it turns an interesting study into a costly toil.

Before leaving, our antiquarian friend said we must on no account miss seeing Scrivelsby Court, the home of the Dymokes, the hereditary Grand Champions of England, and lineal descendants of the Marmions. The duty of the Grand Champion is, we understood, to be present at the coronation on horseback, clad in a full suit of armour, gauntlet in hand, ready to challenge the sovereign’s claims against all comers. After this the Champion is handed a new gold goblet filled with wine, which he has to quaff, retaining the cup which is of considerable value. “The house is only two miles and a half from here; you must go there, and be sure and see the gold coronation cups. I’ll give you a letter of introduction,” exclaimed our good friend, and thereupon he called for pen and ink and paper, and wrote it out at once. Having written and handed us this, he further remarked: “You’ll drive into the park through an arched gateway with a lion on the top; the lion has his foot raised when the family are at home, and down when they are away. But now it’s getting late, and I really must be off.” So our good-natured and entertaining companion, with a hearty hand-shake, departed. Verily we did not fail for friends on the road!

Early next morning we set out to drive to Scrivelsby Court; we could not afford to wait till the afternoon to make our unexpected call—the day was too temptingly fine for that; and moreover we had planned to be in Lincoln that evening, where we expected to find letters from home—Lincoln being one of our “ports of call” for correspondence and parcels. It was a very pleasant and pretty drive from Horncastle to Scrivelsby, the latter half of the way being wholly along a leafy and deep-hedged lane green in shade, and having here and there a thatched cottage to add to its picturesqueness—a bird-beloved lane of the true Devonian type.

Presently we arrived at the stone-arched gateway that gives admission to Scrivelsby Park; here above the Gothic arch we noticed the carved aggressive-looking lion of which we had been told, with a crown

A “LION-GUARDED GATE”