Chapter XVI

Six hilly miles--A vision for a pilgrim--The scenery of the
Wolds--Poets’ dreams _versus_ realities--Tennyson’s
brook--Somersby--An out-of-the-world spot--Tennyson-land--A
historic home--A unique relic of the past--An ancient moated
grange--Traditions.

The next morning after breakfast we consulted our map as to the day’s doings and wanderings. We found that we were only some six miles or so away from Somersby, Tennyson’s birthplace,--six hilly ones they proved to be, but this is a detail. After due consideration we decided that being so comfortable and so much at home in our present quarters we would “take our ease” thereat for still another night and devote the day to exploring Tennyson-land, that is to say, the haunts of his youth. We made out by our map that we could drive to Somersby one way, see something of the country around and beyond, and return by another route, a fact that would give additional interest to our explorations. It would be a delightful little expedition, the morning was fine and sunny, our aneroid was steady at “Fair,” the country before us was a _terra incognita_, interesting because of its associations apart from the possible beauty and certain freshness of its scenery.

On leaving Horncastle our road at once commenced to climb the Wolds, and as we rose the country around widened out. At the crest of the first hill we rested a while to enjoy the prospect; looking back, our eyes ranged over miles and miles of changeful greenery with the wide over-arching sky above, a sky of a blue that would have done credit to Italy. On the far-off horizon we could just discern the faint outlines of Lincoln’s lordly minster, regnant on the hill above the city, a vision that doubtless would have caused the pious medieval pilgrim to go down on his knees,--I write “pious” though I am by no means sure that all medieval pilgrims deserved that epithet. It was in those days a cheap, comparatively safe, if uncomfortable way of travelling, the poor man then had only to assume the garb and manners of a pilgrim to travel and see novel sights and even foreign countries free of expense for board or food, and he might be as lazy as he liked, provided he did not mind a little leisurely walking and going through certain religious observances. The modern tramp was born too late!

As we drove on we had before us a sea of hills, round and green close at hand, fading away by subtle degrees to gray, and from gray to tenderest blue, where in the dim distance the land seemed almost to melt into the sky. Then our road dipped down gradually into a well-wooded country, a glorious country of leafy woods--most charming at Holbeck with its little lakes, an ideal spot on a hot summer’s day; and from the woods rose great grassy slopes down which the sunshine glinted in long lines of yellow light, the golden warmth of the sunlit earth being enhanced by cool shadows of pearly-gray cast by the undulations of the land as well as by cottage, hedge, and tree. The Wolds were very fair to look upon that perfect September day.

[Sidenote: _THE BEAUTY OF THE WOLDS_]

The sun-bright air flooded the landscape with its light; an air so clear and pure and sweet, so balmy yet so bracing, it made us exultant and our journey a joy! Sunshine and fresh air, the fresh air of the Wolds, the Downs, the moors, and the mountains, are as inspiriting as champagne, and the finest cure in the world for pessimism! Whenever I feel inclined that way I go a-driving across country and forget all about it! So we drove on in a delightful day-dream, rejoicing that fate had led us into the Lincolnshire highlands. The unassuming beauty of the Wolds gladdened our hearts, there is a soothing simplicity about it that grander scenes fail to convey; it is in no way wonderful, it is much better--it is satisfying! It too is general, it boasts no presiding peak, no special points of scenic importance that compel you to see them with an irritating pretentiousness: it is not even romantic, it is merely benign. It breathes the atmosphere of peace and homeliness, it does not cry aloud to be admired--and surely there is a virtue in repose as well as in assertiveness? And of the two, in this restless age, repose seems to me the more excellent!

What a wonder it is that the guide-book compilers have not discovered Lincolnshire--and what a blessing! As a novelist once said to me, “I grant you Lincolnshire has its charms, but there is nothing to catch hold of in it.” Well, I am glad that such is the case--one cannot always be in the admiring or heroic mood, there is surely a virtue in scenery that simply smiles at you and lulls you to rest. Here is a charming and healthful holiday ground untrodden, and I can only selfishly say that I trust it may long remain so. The beauty of the Wolds awaits its discoverer and interpreter. Tennyson’s descriptions of Lincolnshire, unlike those of Scott, are too vague to be popular. He is never individual; you cannot even trace his Locksley Hall, nor his Moated Grange. In the _Life of Lord Tennyson_ his son writes, “The localities of my father’s subject-poems are wholly imaginary.” Tennyson also remarked to Professor Knight, “There are some curious creatures who go about fishing for the people and searching for the places which they fancy must have given rise to my poems. They don’t understand or believe that I have any imagination of my own to create the people or places.” For this reason, however much the public may admire Tennyson’s poetry, his poems have failed to make it enthusiastic over Lincolnshire, or to bring the tripper into the land. The tourist desires to inspect actual places and spots, he would like to see the real Locksley Hall, the Moated Grange, and so forth--and they are not to be found, for they are poets’ dreams!

The first hamlet we came to was curiously called Ashby Puerorum, as we afterwards discovered, on account of its having been assigned to the maintenance of the choir boys belonging to Lincoln Cathedral. The little old church stands lonely on

[Sidenote: _THE VIRTUE OF POVERTY_]

an eminence from which we enjoyed a fine prospect over open wold and sheltered dale. Fortunately, owing doubtless to the want of means, the majority of the churches in the Wolds have not been restored but merely repaired--a distinction with a vast difference. Said a passer-by, at another hamlet farther on our way, “I’m afraid you’ll find our church very old-fashioned inside, we’re too poor to restore it properly.” For once I can exclaim, “Oh blessed poverty!”

Much good ink has been spilt on the vexed question of restoration, so many sins have been committed in its name, that the word has become hateful to antiquaries and archæologists. There is a charm quite incommunicable in words about an ancient fane whose walls are beautified by the bloom of ages, and are hallowed by the oft-repeated prayers of bygone generations of worshippers--generations who have added to its history in stone as the years rolled by. Time has given every such edifice a character of its own, just as it gives each human face its special character. It has imparted an individuality to it; past associations are gathered there, and a past atmosphere seems to be enclosed within. Whilst without, the summer suns and winter storms and frosts of unremembered years have left their mark, all of which give an ancient church a pathetic look, and a poetic charm to be felt rather than defined,--a charm that comes alone of age and old associations, and that therefore no new building, however architecturally perfect but with its history to make, can possibly possess.

Too often, alas! the restorer, when let loose upon an ancient church, restores it so perfectly that he destroys nearly all past history (as well, were it possible, might an aged man’s lined and thoughtful face be “restored” to the sweet, though meaningless, simplicity of a baby’s). He scrapes the walls most carefully down and makes them outwardly look like new; he possibly restores the fabric backwards to the one period he inclines to, obliterating as far as may be all the storied work of intermediate generations, just in order, forsooth, to make the building all of one style. And upon the unhappy result the grieved antiquary gazes sadly, for its general aspect is no longer ancient, it looks like new, its interest is gone. Sir James Picton has laid down the dictum that the true principle of restoration is this: “Where an unsightly excrescence has been introduced, remove it; where a stone is decayed replace it; where the walls are covered with whitewash, clean them down. If tracery be broken, match it with new of similar character; but spare the antique surface. Do not touch the evidence which time has recorded of the days gone by.” In the last sentence lies the very essence of true restoration. A well-known architect once told me that he was commissioned by a great man to design him a little country house wherein he might retire and rusticate away from the trammels of State. “When you design it,” said the nobleman to the architect, “be sure you write the word ‘cottage’ large upon your paper.” So I would suggest to the architect-restorer that whenever he is about to restore an ancient building to write the sentence “Do not touch the evidence which time has recorded of the days gone by” largely in his mind. Within the church of Ashby Puerorum we observed an interesting early sixteenth-century brass to Richard Littlebury, his wife, and quiverful of ten children. Also in the pavement under the communion table a fine incised marble slab to a priest, who is shown in Eucharistic vestments.

[Sidenote: “_TENNYSON’S BROOK_”]

Then our road dipped down into a Devonshire-like lane, deep in shade, with high hedgerows on either side, and branching trees overhead, through the rustling foliage of which the softened sunshine shone in a subdued golden-green, delightfully grateful and refreshing to the eye. At the foot of the dip we crossed a little “babbling brook” on a little one-arched bridge,--a brook that flows past the foot of Somersby rectory garden, about half a mile away, and is locally known as “Tennyson’s brook.” One cannot but believe that this is the exception to the rule, and supplied the poet with the subject of his well-known poem. In this belief the stream had a special charm for us; of itself, though pleasant enough to look upon, it is insignificant, but the magic art of a great poet has made it as famous as many a mighty river, such is the power of the pen; a power that promises to rule the world, and dictate even to dictators! We halted here a little while and watched the tiny clear-watered stream flowing on brightly blue, sparkling and rippling in the light, and here and there, beneath the grassy banks and bramble bushes, showing a lovely translucent tawny tint, and again a tremulous yellow where it glided over its sandy shallows with many musical murmurings.

Along the road we had come Tennyson in his youth must often have roamed and tarried, for he was in love with the eldest daughter of Mr. Henry Sellwood of Horncastle; and Dame Rumour has it that he composed many of his early poems during those wanderings to and fro between Somersby and that town. The pleasant stretch of country that the road traverses has apparently little, if at all, changed since that time; so, much as it looked to us, must it have looked to the poet, with its leafy woods, its green meadows, its golden cornfields sloping to the sun, with the bounding wolds around, that beautify whilst limiting the prospect.

So driving on we came at last to old-world Somersby, a tiny hamlet that has never heard the sound of the railway whistle, nor known the hand of the modern builder, a spot that might be a hundred miles from anywhere, and seems successfully to avoid the outer world, whilst in turn the outer world as carefully avoids it! Most happy Somersby! We had found Arcadia at last! In this remote nook Time itself seems to be napping, very tenderly has it dealt with the poet’s birthplace and the scenes of his boyhood around. Here it is always yesterday. A peace that is not of our time broods incumbent over it, a tranquillity that has been handed down unimpaired from ages past lingers lovingly around.

On one side of the little-travelled road and a trifle back therefrom stands the rambling rectory, with its home-like, yellow-washed walls, and ridged and red-tiled roof; on the other stands the ancient church hoary with age; while just beyond the rectory is a quaint old manor house, or grange, formerly moated and now half buried in trees--and this is Somersby. A spot worthy of being the birthplace of a great poet, “a haunt of ancient peace.”

[Sidenote: _MILES FROM ANYWHERE_]

Approaching the rectory we knocked at the door, or it may be we rang a bell, I am not now sure which, and begged permission to be allowed to sketch or photograph the house, which was freely granted. Emboldened by the readiness to accede to our request we further gave a broad hint of what a great pleasure it would give us just to take a glance within as being the birthplace and early home of so famous a man; this favour was also most courteously granted. It must be well for the present dwellers in the now historic rectory that Somersby is miles from anywhere, and that anywhere in the shape of the nearest town is not a tourist-haunted one, or else they would have small respite from callers asking--I had almost written demanding--to see the place. To such an extent did Carlyle, even in his lifetime, find this tourist trespass that we are told “the genial author of _Sartor Resartus_ actually paid a labourer in the parish £5 per annum to take admiring visitors to another farm and pretend that it was Craigenputtock!”

Entering Somersby rectory we were shown the quaint Gothic dining-room, designed and built by the poet’s father, that somewhat resembled the interior of a tiny church. A charming chamber, in spite of its ecclesiastical look, for it had the stamp of individuality about it. The oak mantelpiece here was carved by Tennyson’s father; in this there are eleven niches, with a figure of an apostle in each--seven niches over the centre of the fireplace and two on either side. By some error in the design, we were informed, the reverend craftsman had forgotten to provide a niche for the other apostle--surely a strange mistake for a clergyman to make!

In this quiet rectory, right away in the heart of the remote Wolds, Tennyson was born in 1809, whilst still the eventful nineteenth century was young. Under the red roof-trees at the top of the house is situated the attic, “that room--the apple of my heart’s delight,” as the poet called it. The rectory and garden have happily remained practically unchanged, in all the changeful times that have passed, since those days when the future poet-laureate sang his “matin song” there. At last the hour came when the family had to leave the old home. Tennyson appears to have felt the parting greatly, for he says--

We leave the well-beloved place
Where first we gazed upon the sky:
The roofs that heard our earliest cry,
Will shelter one of stranger race.

But such partings are inevitable in this world; in a restless age that prefers to rent rather than own its own home, even the plaintiveness of such partings appeals but to the few. The modern mind rather loves change than regrets it; the word “home” means not all it used to do in the days ago!

In the illustration of Somersby rectory, as seen from the garden, given herewith, the room in which

[Sidenote: _AT SOMERSBY_]

the poet was born is distinguished by the creeper-grown iron balcony. To the right of the building is shown the gabled exterior of the Gothic dining-room with the sunlight flickering over it, and the curious little statues in the niches thereof, the carved shields built into the wall, the grotesque heads graven on either side of the traceried windows, and lastly, and most noticeably, the quaint gargoyles projecting boldly forth. This addition of Dr. Tennyson to the rectory at once gives it a welcome character, and lifts it out of the commonplace; without such addition the house would be pleasant enough to look upon in a homely way, but featureless. Like human beings, buildings are improved by a little character; there is plenty of insipidity in the world in flesh and blood as well as in bricks, or stones, and mortar.

The old bird-haunted garden behind the rectory--especially beloved by blackbirds and thrushes--with its old-fashioned flower-beds, its summer-house, dark copper beeches, and sunny lawn sloping to the south, remains much as when the Tennyson family were there, and a rustic gate, just as of old, leads to the meadows and _the_ brook that “runs babbling to the plain.” For the sake of posterity it would be well if this storied rectory, together with the little garden, could be preserved in its original and picturesque simplicity for ever. Any day may be too late! In the historic perspective of the centuries to come, Tennyson will doubtless rank as the greatest poet of a great age--perchance as one of the immortals, for some fames cannot die! and who can tell with the growing glamour of time whether Somersby rectory, if preserved whilst yet there is the opportunity, may not come to be a place of pilgrimage even as is Stratford-on-Avon? The latter spot Americans love to call “Shakespeare’s town,” as they delight to term England “the old home”; will it ever be that Somersby will be called “Tennyson’s village”? The best memorial of the great Victorian poet would be to religiously preserve his birthplace intact as it now is, and was in the poet’s youth; better, far better to do this little to his memory than to erect statues in squares or streets, or place stained-glass windows in cathedrals or churches--these can be produced any day! but his birthplace, overgrown with memories and with the glamour of old associations clinging to it, if by any chance this be lost to us it can never be replaced, neither prayers nor money could do it. Gold cannot purchase memories!

The church of Somersby is small but it is picturesque (in my eyes at any rate), and has the charm of unpretentiousness; you may admire a grand cathedral, but a humble fane like this you may love, which is better. The Christian religion was born of humbleness! The infant Saviour in the lowly manger is ever greater than His servant, a lordly bishop in a palace! So a simple, earnest service in such an unadorned church appeals to me infinitely more, brings the reality of true religion nearer to my heart, than the most elaborate ritual in the most magnificent cathedral (which merely appeals to the senses), as though God could only be approached through a pompous ceremonial with the aid of priestly intercession, all of which

Seems to remove the Lord so far away;
The “Father” was so near in Jesus’ day.

Ceremonial belongs properly to paganism, not to Christianity!

[Sidenote: _A TIME-WORN TOWER_]

The ancient tower of Somersby church is squat and square, it boasts no uprising spire pointing to the sky. The soft sandstone of which it is built has crumbled away in places, and has been patched here and there with red bricks and redder tiles. Its weather-worn walls are now moss-encrusted and lichen-laden; tiny weeds and grasses--bird or wind sown--find a home in many a crevice of the time-rent masonry. The tower is a study of colour, its rugged surface shows plainly the stress and stains of countless winter storms. Yellow and gray stones, green grasses and vegetation, ruddy bricks and broken tiles, form a blending of tints that go to make a harmonious whole, mellowed as they are by the magic hand of Time. The tower stands there silently eloquent of the past, beautiful with a beauty it had not at first, and that is the dower of ages; it looks so pathetic in its patched and crumbling state, yet in spite of all it is strong still. Generations will come and wither away faster than its stones will crumble down.

The most permanent feature of the English landscape is its ancient churches. Kingdoms have waxed and waned, new empires and mighty republics across the seas have been founded, since they first arose, and still they stand in their old places, watching over the slumbering dead around. But I am rhapsodising, and nowadays this is a literary sin. I acknowledge my transgression and will endeavour to atone for it by merely being descriptive for the future.

On the gable of the porch of Somersby church is an old-fashioned sun-dial--useful on sunny days to reproach laggard worshippers. This bears the not very original motto, “Time passeth.” A better motto we noted inscribed on an old Fenland country garden sun-dial as follows, and which struck us as fresh:--

A clock the time may wrongly tell,
I never, if the sun shine well.

Within the porch is a well-preserved holy-water stoup.

The interior of the church unfortunately shows signs of restoration, in a mild form truly, but still unwelcome as robbing the fabric of some of its ancient character. Surely of all churches in the wild Wolds this one might have been simply maintained. Possibly the poet’s wide renown has been the cause of its undoing; well may Byron sing of “the fatal gift of fame.” The church looks not now the same as when Dr. Tennyson preached, and his son, who was to make the family name familiar throughout the world, worshipped there. The obtrusive red-tiled pavement “that rushes at you,” to employ an expressive artist’s term; the over-neat seats--of varnished pine, if I remember aright--are clean and decent, but they hardly harmonise with the simple

[Sidenote: “_NEW WINE IN OLD BOTTLES_”]

rustic fane. Better far, considering the associations it has acquired, to have preserved the church as Tennyson knew it. Besides these signs of “new wine in old bottles,” architecturally speaking, we noticed an intruding harmonium; but this does not matter so much as it is movable, and the eye knowing this can conveniently ignore it, no harm has been permanently done, it is not structural. The instrument is inscribed--

To the glory of God
and in memory of
ALFRED LORD TENNYSON
September 1895.

One cannot but feel that nothing new or mean should have been allowed to find a place here; all the old church needed was to be repaired, that might have been, possibly was, a painful necessity. To do more was to do harm. In his _In Memoriam_ Tennyson refers to “the cold baptismal font” (where, according to the Somersby register, the poet was christened on 8th August 1809); this happily remains unchanged--a simple font of shaped stone that well accords with the time-hallowed structure within and the weather-worn walls without. That this has not been improved away is a fact to be thankful for; we might have had some “superior carved art” marble production in its place put there “To the glory of God, and in memory of,” etc., the usual excuse for such innovations.

In the graveyard of Somersby, close to the porch stands a genuine medieval churchyard cross in perfect condition, save for the inevitable weathering of centuries--a sight to delight the heart of an antiquary. A beautifully designed cross it is, in the Perpendicular style, most gracefully proportioned, consisting of a tall octagonal shaft tapering upwards from its base. On the top of the shaft, under an angular canopy, is the figure of the Virgin Mary crowned on one side and a representation of the crucifixion on the other. This cross is, I believe, unique in England, inasmuch as it was neither destroyed by the Puritans nor has it been restored. It only shows that then, as now, Somersby must have been remote and out of the world, or how otherwise can we account for this “superstitious thing” escaping their eagle eyes, even so its escape is a marvel considering that Lincolnshire was one of the strongholds of Puritanism. The peculiar preservation of this one cross in all England, under the circumstances, would almost suggest some unrecorded cause, it is a minor historical mystery! The tomb of Dr. Tennyson is in the churchyard here. “Our father’s dust is left alone,” pathetically exclaims the poet as he bade a reluctant farewell to the home and scenes of his childhood to wander

In lands where not a memory strays,
Nor landmark breathes of other days,
But all is new unhallow’d ground.

We now turned to inspect the ancient and erst moated grange that stands just beyond the rectory, the gardens of the two houses indeed adjoin. This charming and quaint old home was naturally well known to Tennyson, and within its time-honoured walls he and his brothers, we learn, used to indulge their boyish pranks. It is reputed to have been designed by Sir J. Vanbrugh; a substantial, imposing-looking building it is of brick, and suggests a massiveness not often obtained in that material. The parapet that runs along the top is embattled, a great doorway finds a place in the centre of the front facing the road, the windows are heavy and round topped, and at each corner of the house is a square little tower that slightly projects. Though it does not wholly answer to either description, it used to be believed by many people to be the original of “The Moated Grange,” and by others that of “Locksley Hall.” Now that we know that the poet himself has declared such fond suppositions to be fallacies, the matter is settled for ever.

[Sidenote: _SOMERSBY GRANGE_]

Seen from the roadway, and across the bit of wild garden, as we saw it then, Somersby Grange, with no sign of life about it, not even smoke from chimney, nor stray bird on roof, nor bark of dog; its sombre mass standing darkly forth, gloomy in the shade cast down by overhanging trees of twisted branches and heavy foliage, its weather-stained walls gray and green with age; seen thus, the old grange impressed us greatly, it seemed the very ideal of a haunted house, it positively called for a family ghost. There was, as the Scotch say, an eerie look about it; the gray, grim walls told of past days, and suggested forgotten episodes, an air of olden romance clings thereto, mingled with something of the uncanny. It was a picture and a poem in one--these first, then a building!

Now it fortunately so happened that the night before at Horncastle we had met a Lincolnshire clergyman who took much interest in our journey, past and to come; and, thoughtful-minded, hearing that we proposed to explore Tennyson’s country, and knowing that we were total strangers in the land, most kindly offered us introductions to the owners of one or two interesting houses on our way. Somersby Grange, we found, was one of these houses, therefore when we saw the house we felt how fortune favoured us. So, armed with our introduction we boldly made our way to the front door and were made welcome, the lady of the house herself good-naturedly volunteering to show us over. Somehow it seemed on our tour, as I believe I have remarked of a former one, that whenever we met a stranger there we found a friend, and oftentimes, as in this instance, a most kind friend too. This making of friends on the way is one of the special delights of desultory travel by road.

Within, Somersby Grange had quite a cheerful aspect that wholly belied its exterior gloom,--a cheerfulness that we almost resented, for with it all mystery vanished, and the air of romance seemed to fade away. The front door opened directly into a well-lighted panelled hall with a groined ceiling above. The interior was not so interesting as we expected--but then we expected so much. The most notable objects here were the cellars, of which there are a number all below the ground level, so naturally dark and dismal; these tradition asserts to have formerly been dungeons. Some of them have

[Sidenote: _DUNGEONS OR CELLARS_]

small arched recesses in the wall, in which, we understood, food for prisoners was supposed to be placed. They certainly would have made desirable dungeons, according to medieval ideas. And we were further informed that certain antiquaries who had inspected the cellars expressed their belief that they had been built for dungeons; possibly the antiquaries in question were right. I always have a great respect for the dictum of learned men, but in this instance, in spite of the unknown authorities, and much as I dislike to differ from well-established tradition, I still strongly incline to the opinion that these underground places were simply intended for cellars. “Dungeons” sounds more romantic truly, but why should such a house be provided with dungeons? Besides, granted they were dungeons, then the difficult question arises, “Where were the cellars?” For such a house, though it might not need dungeons, would certainly require cellars, and bearing in mind its date, a generous allowance thereof!

We were told also that there is a tradition, handed down with the house, according to which there is a long secret subterranean passage leading from one of these cellars to some spot without; but I have heard so many similar stories before of so many other places, that with respect to all such mysterious passages I can only say, “Seeing’s believing.” The Grange is a substantial building; its walls being three feet thick make it delightfully cool in summer and as delightfully warm in winter. The dweller in the modern villa, mis-termed “desirable” by its owner, knows nothing of the luxury of such thick walls, nor the saving in coal bills entailed thereby. Somersby Grange is a house to entice the modern speculative builder into, and having done so to point out to him the solid substance thereof as an example of the liberal use of material over and above that nicely calculated as the minimum required to outlast a ground lease. Then possibly the speculative builder would justly reply that to build houses like that to sell would mean the bankruptcy court. These old houses were built for homes, not for one generation, but for many. I am afraid that the changed conditions of life, owing mainly to the cheap communication and rapid transit provided by railways, have caused home building to become almost a lost art. Why, instead of a family living for generations in one place, it is a matter of surprise if they stay more therein than a few years; three appears to be a very general and favourite term!

The interior of Somersby Grange, I have to confess, disappointed us after the promise of its romantic exterior. We failed to discover any old-time tradition connected therewith, no picturesque elopement, no hiding-place for fugitives, no horrible murder--no ghost. Indeed the old home seems to have led quite a respectable and uneventful existence--it is like a novel without a plot!