Over Fen and Wold

by James John Hissey

on his rugged head, his paw raised and tail curled, keeping silent watch and ward around, as he has done for centuries past. The gateway at once brought to mind one of the few descriptive lines in “Locksley Hall Sixty Years After”—

Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the lion-guarded gate.

We had, fortunately, brought our copy of Tennyson with us into Lincolnshire, so that we were enabled to refer to it from time to time. Driving under the gateway, and along the smooth winding road across the park, we soon came in sight of the house, the greater part of which is unfortunately comparatively modern, and in the Tudor style, the old mansion having been burnt down in 1765, but happily the ancient moat still remains, and this with the time-toned outbuildings makes a pleasant enough picture. Driving under another arched gateway we entered the courtyard, with an old sun-dial in the centre; before us here we noted a charming little oriel window over the entrance porch. Again we were reminded of certain lines in the same poem that seemed to fit in perfectly with the scene:—

Here we met, our latest meeting—Amy—sixty years ago—
. . . . . .
Just above the gateway tower.

and,

From that casement where the trailer mantles all the mouldering bricks—
. . . . . .
While I shelter’d in this archway from a day of driving showers—
Peept the winsome face of Edith.

Now, first at Scrivelsby we have “the lion-guarded gate”; then the second arched gateway we drove through may well be Tennyson’s “gateway tower”; further still the “casement where the trailer mantles all the mouldering bricks” might be the oriel window above the porch, as it is a prominent feature from the archway. Though I may be wholly wrong, I cannot help fancying that Scrivelsby has lent bits towards the building up of Locksley Hall. Perhaps I may have looked for resemblances—and so have found them; for it is astonishing how often we find what we look for. “Trifles,” to the would-be-discoverer, are “confirmation strong as proofs of holy writ.” Some short time ago I was calling on an artist friend, and I observed hanging on the wall of his studio a charming picture representing an ancient home, with great ivy-clad gables, bell-turrets, massive stacks of clustering chimneys, mullioned windows, and all that goes to make a building a poem. “What an ideal place,” I promptly exclaimed; “do tell me where it is; I must see the original; it’s simply a romance.” My friend’s reply was somewhat puzzling. “Well, it’s in six different counties, so you can’t see it all at once!” “Whatever do you mean?” I retorted. “Well,” he responded, “it’s a composition, if you will know—a bit from one old place, and a bit from another; the bell-turret is from an old Lancashire hall, that curious chimney-stack is from a Worcestershire manor-house, that quaint window I sketched in a Cotswold village, and so forth. I can’t locate the house, or give it a distinguishing name, you see.” Now this incident

SCRIVELSBY: THE HOME OF THE CHAMPIONS OF ENGLAND.