During former visits to Horncastle I had tried to identify Borrow’s inn, but without result. Happily, on the present occasion, I came upon a local antiquary from whom I gathered that Borrow’s inn was undoubtedly the “George,” now converted into a post office. Strolling down the quondam inn-yard, my friend pointed out the bow-window through which the jockey so neatly pitched his bottle of pink champagne. Also, he told a good tale of the fair in its palmy days—
Public-houses, though very numerous in the town, were yet unable to supply the fair folk with all the drink they required, and any householder could take out what was called a Bough Licence on payment of seven shillings and sixpence. Having decided to take out such a licence, a man and his wife obtained a barrel of beer and displayed the customary green bough over their door. On the eve of the fair the husband said to his wife—
“I’ll see if this beer is good.”
“You won’t without paying for it.”
“Very well, my dear, I’ll have three-pen’orth,” handing over the coins to his wife.
He appeared to enjoy it so much that she said—
“Let me have three-pen’orth,” handing the pence to her husband. Then he had another drink, passing the threepence back again. And the same coppers passed to and fro until the barrel was empty.
It was to Horncastle Fair, years ago, that Jem Mace came with his master, Nat Langham, to whom he had been introduced at Lincoln Fair, where Nat had a sparring troupe which he had brought down from the metropolis. At Horncastle, Jem had a tremendous glove-fight with the local champion, who was the terror of the district. This fellow was bigger and older than Mace, who was then only in his eighteenth year, and for a long time the issue was doubtful, but at last the Horncastle champion was licked to a standstill, and had to give in.
Walking down a crooked by-lane, past a shop where a chatty little tailor sat repairing a scarlet hunting-coat (the South Wolds Kennels lie a few miles outside the town), I found a camp of Gypsies in a field, and near one of the fires on the grass sat Liddy Brown, a crone of seventy years, puffing a black pipe, her curls peeping from beneath a gay diklo (kerchief). In the course of our talk, she spoke of our hilly country, and recalled the days when her folk had pack-donkeys and camped in the green lanes on the Wolds. A grand-daughter of Fowk Heron, she had some diverting reminiscences of her mother Mizereti, and her aunts Cinderella and Tiena. The last-named was bitten by a mad dog, and thereby came to an untimely end.