Chapter XXI

A cross-country road--A famous hill--Another medieval inn--“The
Drunken Sermon”--Bottesford--Staunton Hall--Old family deeds--A
chained library--Woolsthorpe manor-house--A great inventor!--Melton
Mowbray--Oakham--A quaint old manorial custom--Rockingham
Castle--Kirby.

From “Beckingham-behind-the-Times” we drove on to the old historic town of Grantham, a town that still retains much of its ancient picturesqueness though it is certainly not slothful, but rather pleasantly progressive. Our road led us through a very pretty country, but the way was rather hard to find as the turnings were many, the guide-posts few, and some of the few illegible. As we drove on, the distance showed clearly defined and darkly blue, we could plainly see the spire of Claypole church on the horizon, rising sharply into the air over wood and field; now there is a local saying at Beckingham that “when you cannot see Claypole church spire, it is sure to be fine,” if the converse of this meant rain we ought to have had it, for besides the barometer was low and falling, and the sky cloudy, so the road being good, though narrow, we sped along with what haste we could.

At Fenton, the first hamlet we came to, we pulled up a few minutes in spite of the threatening weather, to inspect a picturesque and interesting old manor-house, a little off the wayside, a house somewhat modernised, and apparently turned into a farmstead. Just above one of the windows of this was a stone inscribed “1507--R. L.,” and in front of it separated by a little garden, which erst doubtless formed a courtyard, stood a gray old Jacobean gateway, with a coat-of-arms boldly engraved on the top. Just beyond this time-toned manor-house was the ancient church, worn and gray; the hoary church and old-time home with its quaint gateway made a very effective picture; a genuine bit of old England. Manifestly the country about here is not one given to change, it all bears a mellow, peaceful look that comes of contented abiding, and is so soothing to the eye, wearied with the ugliness of modern towns, and the architectural eyesores of the modern builder.

Then proceeding in due course, we passed through Stubton, a little hamlet in no special way noteworthy, with its churchyard by the roadside, a goodly portion of the latter being taken up with a yew-enclosed tomb. We needs must carry our dignity down to the grave--but how of the humble dead who lie beneath their grass-grown graves un-monumented?

Forget not Earth, thy disappointed Dead!
Forget not Earth, thy disinherited!
Forget not the forgotten! keep a strain
Of divine sorrow in sweet undertone
For all the dead who lived and died in vain!
Imperial Future when in countless train
The generations lead thee to thy throne,
Forget not the forgotten and unknown!

[Sidenote: _LINCOLNSHIRE HILLS_]

In another mile or two we reached the charming village of Brandon situated in a wooded valley, backed by a long line of church-dotted hills; a line of hills stretching far away to the right and left that form the backbone of Lincolnshire, and are known locally by the curious title of “the Cliff.” From this pleasant rural spot an excellent going road brought us to another pretty village with a grand and very interesting-looking church, in the quiet God’s acre of which was a quaint sun-dial raised on the top of a tall stone pillar; the church doors were carefully locked, so we did not see inside. As at Fenton, so here, close by the church, stands an old manor-hall, a pleasant bit of past-century building.

Soon after this we struck upon the old Great North Road and began to mount the long and stiff Gonerby Hill, famous in the old coaching days as the worst “pitch” on the road between London and Edinburgh. It is a striking fact that the worst hill on the old main high-road, close upon four hundred miles in length, should be in Lincolnshire, a county supposed to be so flat! It may be remembered that Scott, who frequently travelled this road, makes mention of this hill in _The Heart of Midlothian_. Jeanie Deans, on leaving the Saracen’s Head at Newark, bound for Grantham, was assured, “It was all plain road, except a high mountain called Gunnerby Hill about three miles from Grantham, which was her stage for the night. ‘I’m glad to hear there’s a hill,’ said Jeanie, ‘for baith my sight and my very feet are weary o’ sic tracts o’ level ground--it looks a’ the way between this and York as if a’ the land had been trenched and levelled, whilk is very wearisome to my Scotch een....’ ‘As for the matter of that, young woman,’ said mine host, ‘an you be so fond o’ hill, I carena an thou couldst carry Gunnerby away with thee in thy lap, for it’s a murder to post-horses.’”

From the top of Gonerby Hill or Gunnerby (according to the old maps) we had a long run down into Grantham, where we sought “shelter and a night’s lodging” beneath the sign of the “Angel,” one of the few medieval hostelries left to us; at the moment I can only call to memory six others in England, but there may be more.

A most interesting old building is the Angel at Grantham, with its weather-worn and time-stained front of stone facing the street and giving it quite a special character; nor do you come upon so aged and historic an hostelry every day. At the end of the drip mouldings on either side of the central archway that gives access to the building, are sculptured heads representing those of Edward III. and Philippa his Queen; at least so we were told, we had no other means of knowing whom the heads were intended for. One has to take many things on faith in this world! Over the archway projects a fine oriel window ornamented with carvings, the window being supported on a corbel composed of an angel with outspread wings. It was in this very building--according to our landlord who had naturally studied the history of his old house--that King John held his Court on 23rd February 1213 (a fairly long time to date back to); and Richard III. signed the death-warrant of the Duke of Buckingham on 19th October 1483, in a room still called the “King’s Chamber.” We found that we had this very chamber allotted to us as our bedroom--a room that surely should be haunted, if ever a room were; but we slept soundly there, and if any ghost did appear he did not disturb us; anyway we were far too sleepy, after our long drive in the open air, to trouble about such trifles as ghosts! I verily believe if one had appeared that we should simply have turned lazily over, and have told him angrily not to bother us! A driving tour begets iron nerves and dreamless slumbers.

[Sidenote: _A STORIED HOSTELRY_]

Here in this ancient and storied hostelry we latter-day travellers were made exceedingly comfortable; we were even provided with the wholly unexpected, and, be it confessed, undesired, luxury of the electric light--which indeed appeared far too anachronistic for its surroundings. So comfortable were we made, that, remembering our letter of introduction, and finding that Staunton Hall was some nine miles away, we determined to drive there and back on the morrow, and stay on at the “Angel” over another day, though we required no excuse to do so.

During the evening, whilst making sundry small purchases at a shop, we overheard one of a party of purchasers ask another if he had heard the drunken sermon? The question sounded to us like a bit of local scandal, and though we much dislike all scandal, still in this case curiosity got the better of our dislikes, and when his customers had gone, we ventured to ask the shopman what the scandal was. “Bless you, sir,” replied he, “there’s no scandal at all; we’re far too good in Grantham to have any scandals.” We were delighted to hear this, and thereupon thought what a delightful place Grantham must be to live in! It was explained to us that, according to an ancient will of a certain Michael Solomon, the tenant of the “Angel” has to pay a sum of two guineas every year to the vicar, in return for which the vicar has to preach a sermon against drunkenness, which he does annually on the first Sunday after the mayor’s election. And this sermon is known locally as the “drunken sermon.” I only devoutly wish that all scandals were so readily explained away, for then the world would be a much pleasanter place to live in!

Early next morning we set off for Staunton Hall. Soon after getting free of the town we had a fine, though distant, view of Belvoir Castle, rising prominently and picturesquely out of the woods to our left, with the misty hills of Leicestershire forming an effective background. Passing on through a pleasant stretch of country we reached the pretty village of Bottesford, where we forded a little river, hence doubtless the name. Here we observed the steps and base of the shaft of a market-cross. The church chanced to be open, so we took a glance inside and found there a number of grand monuments to the Lords of Belvoir. A portion of the inscription on the magnificent tomb of the sixth Earl of Rutland we copied as showing the strange faith in sorcery held at the period even in the highest ranks of society, and this is it: “In 1608, he married ye Lady Cecilia Hungerford by whom he had two sonnes both [=w]ch died in their infancy by wicked practise and sorcerye.” Monumental inscriptions are oftentimes curious reading, and frequently throw interesting sidelights on the superstitions and manners of bygone days.

[Sidenote: _THE KEY OF STAUNTON TOWER_]

There was nothing further noteworthy on our way till we reached Staunton Hall, an ancient home set away in a tree-shaded park, and here our letter of introduction ensured us a welcome; not only did the lady of the house very kindly offer to show us over it herself, but also most courteously granted us the highly appreciated privilege of inspecting several of the old family documents, some of which were of exceeding interest. Amongst the treasures preserved here is the gold key of the Staunton tower and the Royal apartments at Belvoir Castle. During the Parliamentary wars, it appears Colonel Staunton, of Staunton Hall, held and defended Belvoir Castle for the King. As a recognition for this act, the head of the Staunton family are privileged to go to Belvoir Castle when any member of the Royal family is about to visit there, and to present to such member the gold key which nominally gives access to the Royal apartments.

We noticed, as we drove up, over the entrance doorway the date 1573, inscribed below a coat-of-arms, but this, we were told, only relates to the doorway which was a later addition to the building; the year of the erection of the hall being actually a little earlier, namely in 1554, as shown cut in a stone let into one of the chimney stacks. The great and original heavy oak door is still _in situ_; indented and in places pierced with shots and bullets that were fired at it during the siege of the house by the Parliamentary forces; during which attack the house was bravely defended by the wife of Colonel Staunton, who, just before it was captured, made her escape with her children. On the door over these records of that struggle is cut the date thereof, 1642. The ancient and historic door is preserved by an inner one of oak attached thereto.

Amongst the very interesting family documents is a deed in old Latin, temp. 1323, relating to the bearing of the Cross in the Holy Land on behalf of William de Staunton, to which is attached a translation; this latter we copied, and it runs as follows--

To all people about to see or hear this letter, I, William de
Staunton give greeting. Know ye that in consideration of high
esteem and for the safety of my own soul, and those of my ancestors
and successors have made free Hugo Travers, the son of Simon of
Alurington in which place he assumed the Cross for me, and have
quit claimed for myself and my heirs for ever, himself and his
possessions from all terrene service and exaction, and have yielded
him with all his possessions or property to the Lord and the Church
of St. Mary of Staunton, whereby I desire and grant that he and his
property may remain free for ever under the protection of the Lord
and St. Mary, and the restored church of Staunton. Witness hereof,
Witto, priest of Kidvington, Radulpho de St. Paul. Walter de Hou.

And many others, the date following. Which document is food for thought, and seems to show how easily, according to the Church of those days, the

[Sidenote: _HISTORIC DEEDS_]

soul of a rich man, his ancestors, and descendants could be saved by vicarious deed.

Then we were shown a signed authority from Charles I. for “Colonell” Staunton to raise a regiment of 1200 foot in the king’s service. The next document taken in due chronological order ran thus:--

CHARLES R.

Our express will and pleasure therefor is that you presently uppon
the receipt of this our orders draw all your Regiment out of our
Garrison of Newark and with them to march into Tuxford and go
forward under the order of Lt. Generall Villiers. This you are
punctually to obey, and for your so doing this shall be your
warrant.

Given at our Court at Welbeck this 16 of August 1645. To our trusty
and welbeloved
Colonell Staunton at Newark
By his Majesty’s Commands
E. W. W. Wather.

For the time, the spelling of this is exceptionally correct. Then we were shown another document signed by Oliver Cromwell, that explains itself sufficiently.

June 1646. A Licence to Mrs. Ann Staunton, or whom she should
appoint, to look into and oversee the repairs of the Manor House of
Staunton in the County of Nottingham, late belonging to Colonel
Staunton, a Delinquent to the Parliament Service, and there to
remain during such time as the said house shall be repairing.

Oliver Cromwell.

There were other interesting documents we inspected, but alas! space forbids my giving any more here.

On our way back to Grantham we pulled up at the little village of Sedgebrook, attracted by the fine and interesting-looking church there, and also in search of any quaint epitaph. We found the rector, manifestly an ardent antiquary, in the church, which was being lovingly repaired under his skilled supervision. He did not know of any noteworthy epitaph in the churchyard, but he could give us one he copied at Shipley in Derbyshire, if we cared to have it. We did, and here it is:--

God saw good as I lopped off wood
I fell from the top of a tree,
I met with a check that broke my neck
And so God lopped off me.

Sedgebrook church is very interesting, I could easily enlarge upon it to the extent of a whole chapter did the exigencies of space permit. Here is the Markham chapel in which the “Upright Judge,” Chief Justice Markham of the King’s Bench, 1462, is buried, or is supposed to be; his tomb has been destroyed. There is a hazy local tradition that only his effigy is buried here and not his body; also the same tradition has it that the judge, on being deprived of his office by the king, took sanctuary in the church and was fed there by his daughter, whose incised slab representing her head resting on a pillow now finds a place on the wall of the chapel. “Now,” said the rector, “some clever people come here and when they see that, they at once take the pillow for a head-dress, and one gentleman even went so far as to call attention to it in a publication as a unique example of a head-dress of the period!” Of course the slab was intended to be laid flat on the floor, when the effect of the pillow, a little out of drawing by the way, would have been more natural. After this, we hastened back again to our comfortable medieval hostelry at Grantham, well satisfied with our day’s wanderings.

[Sidenote: _A CHAINED LIBRARY_]

Early next morning, before starting on the road, we paid a visit to the grand parish church of the town, whose splendid tower is one of the finest in the kingdom, besides being one of the earliest, ranking, according to some architectural authorities, second only to that of Salisbury Cathedral. But what interested us most in this glorious old church, with its broad aisles and general feeling of spaciousness, was its library of chained books of rare medieval works; this is contained in a large parvise chamber over the south porch. The books are curiously placed on their shelves with their backs to the wall, their titles being written on their front pages. We noticed that many of the works suffered from iron-mould owing to the chain fastenings and damp.

We left Grantham in a mist that inclined to rain; what the country we passed through at first was like I cannot say, but half seen through the veil of mist, the hills around loomed vague and vast, poetically mysterious; even the near fields and hedgerows were only dimly discernible, and the trees by the roadside dripped with moisture that was almost as wetting as an honest rain, but it in no way damped our spirits. We enjoyed the mist, it left so much to our imagination, and it allowed us to picture the scenery much as we wished it to be; thus the possibly commonplace assumed, in our eyes, the romantic. So, driving on through a land half real, half the creation of our fancy, we reached Great Ponton, a tiny hamlet with an ancient church, solemn with the duskiness of centuries. Close to the hoary fane stood, pathetic in neglect, a quaint, old-time, stone-built home with “stepped gables,” whose weather-worn aged-toned walls were broken by mullioned window’s rounded at the top, and without transoms. A home of the past, full of character. Without, the stone gateway pillars still stand, gray and desolate, that used to give access to the mansion; the space between them now being barred merely by broken hurdles, and in the fore-court grasses and nettles flourished exceedingly. The building somehow involuntarily called to our mind Hood’s famous poem of “The Haunted House.”

Then passing through a pleasant country of woods, we suddenly found ourselves in the old-fashioned village of Colsterworth, where at the “White Lion” we baited our horses and refreshed ourselves; after which we set out on foot across the fields to find Woolsthorpe Manor-house where Sir Isaac Newton was born, which we made out from our map to be about a mile and a half distant, though it took us a good two miles to get there all through asking our way; for we got directed to the “Sir Isaac Newton” public-house instead of to his birthplace! At last, however, we found the modest old manor-house, a small but pleasant enough looking home, whose stone walls are ivy-draped, but, though substantially built, the place has no particular

[Sidenote: _SIR ISAAC NEWTON’S BIRTHPLACE_]

architectural merit; in front of it is an orchard, just as in the days of old, and it was in this orchard that Newton saw the historic apple fall. We should imagine that the house and surroundings generally, except possibly the ugly cart-shed at the back, are but little altered since the famous philosopher’s time. We at once set to work to make a sketch of the old house, reproduced herewith; in doing this we observed, just over the doorway, where one often finds a coat-of-arms, a stone carved with the representation of two “cross-bones” in a shield, and below this gruesome device we read the following inscription:--

In this Manor House
Sir Isaac Newton Knt
Was born 25th December
A.D. 1642.

After finishing our sketch, we ventured to knock at the front door and politely asked if it would be possible for a perfect stranger just to take a glance at the room in which Newton was born. A pleasant-faced woman opened it, presumably the lady of the house, and with a smile she said, “Certainly, if it would interest you to see it.” We replied, with many thanks for the unexpected courtesy, that it would very much interest us to see it, whereupon we were taken upstairs to a comfortable old-fashioned chamber, in no way remarkable for size or quaintness, unless a fireplace in the corner can be considered the latter. The position of this room is shown by the upper front mullioned window to the left of the house in the picture, the window to the side being built up. In a corner of this chamber is a small marble tablet let into the wall and inscribed:--

Sir Isaac Newton (Son of Isaac Newton
Lord of the Manor of Woolsthorpe) was born
in this room December 25th 1642.

Nature and Nature’s laws lay hid in night
God said, “Let Newton be” and all was light.
POPE.

Then we were taken to see Newton’s tiny study, situated upstairs and on the same floor. Here is hung a drawing of the very tree from which Newton saw the apple fall. It is a curious-looking old gnarled tree, and I have taken the artist’s license of introducing it in the foreground of my sketch, in place of a very ordinary tree of the same kind that really was growing on that spot. I seldom take such liberties, but in this exceptional case I thought a likeness of the famous old tree might be of interest, and, accompanied by an explanation, allowable. Though the original tree is dead, a graft, we were informed, was made from it, which is growing now in the orchard in the very spot that the old one grew; strangely enough it greatly resembles its historic predecessor.

Then we made our way back to Colsterworth, crossing the river Witham by a foot-bridge, the road traversing it by a ford. The bottom of the stream, we noticed, was paved with flat stones, so that the carts in driving through should not sink in the mud, an arrangement that I do not remember to have noted elsewhere. Before returning to our

[Sidenote: _A HAPPY CONCEIT_]

hotel we took a look at the church, as it was on our road, and the door happened to be open. We descended into the building down two or three steps, from which we concluded, rightly as we discovered, that it was dedicated to John the Baptist. As the late Rev. R. S. Hawker, the famous Cornish vicar, says, “Every church dedicated to John the Baptizer is thus arranged. We go down into them, as those about to be baptized of John went down into the water.” The church is well worth inspection; but what chiefly interested us in it was a stone sun-dial let into the north wall with the following inscription below:--“Newton, aged nine years, cut with his penknife this dial.” Above, one of the corbels is carved with the likeness of Sir Isaac Newton, a delightful conceit that pleased us greatly. An old body we spoke to in the church amused us not a little by exclaiming, “Yes, he were a wonderful man Sir Isaac to invent gravitation!” “Ah!” we replied, “however did the world get on before he invented it?” But our satire fell harmless. “Oh, very well,” she responded; “it b’aint no good of to nobody as far as I can see.” And with this we took our departure, and returned to our inn.

After a hurried glance at our map before starting, we decided to drive across country to Melton Mowbray, and to stop there the night. On inquiring about the way we were informed that we could not miss it, as it was well “sign-posted,” a fresh expression to us. Just as we started the rain came down. Lincolnshire had greeted our coming with sunny smiles, and now she bade us good-bye in tears,--that was the poetical way of looking at the unpromising state of the weather! Of the road on to Melton Mowbray I cannot say much, as it rained the whole way persistently. In spite of this the country struck us as being distinctly pretty in parts, especially at one spot where we dipped down through woods to a ford over a shallow but fairly wide river, across which was a very Welsh-like bridge for pedestrians. On a fine day this would have been an ideal spot to make a sketch or to take a photograph of. Even seen through the rain its picturesqueness impressed itself so on us that during the evening we made a very fair memory-sketch of the quiet nook.

It rained all that night at Melton Mowbray, at least the ostler said it did, and we took his word for it, as we were fast asleep. Anyhow it was raining in the morning when we awoke; and though we waited till eleven o’clock before resuming our journey, the weather had not the grace to improve, so we set forth in the rain bound for Oakham on our way to Uppingham. As we drove on the weather improved. Now and again the sun struggled out for a time, and the cloud-scapes above and the strong play of light and shade on the hilly landscape below were very effective. The country was wild and beautiful, with a beauty of hill and dale, of wood, and hedgerowed lane that called Devonshire to remembrance. The only place we passed through on the way of any importance was the straggling and very pretty village of Langham. Shortly after this we found ourselves in Oakham,

[Sidenote: _A CURIOUS TOLL_]

which struck us as a clean, neat little town with thatched and slab-roofed houses in its streets, and a charming old butter-cross set away in a quiet corner, with a sun-dial on the top and the ancient stocks below. Near to the butter-cross stands the banqueting-hall of Oakham Castle, all that now remains of that stronghold. Within, the walls of this hall are hung round with a number of gigantic horse-shoes, some gilt, and nearly all with the names of titled people painted on them. On inquiring the wherefore of this, we were told that the custom of the Lord of the Manor anciently exerted to show his authority, and still maintained, is to claim a horse-shoe from every peer who passes through the town for the first time. Instead of real horse-shoes, in every instance but one, large imitation shoes to hang up have been purposely made. The one real horse-shoe is that of Lord Willoughby d’Eresby, dated 1840. The oldest shoe is that of Queen Elizabeth. Certainly the custom is a curious one, and it would be interesting to trace its origin.

From Oakham we had a delightful drive of six miles on to Uppingham. The weather had cleared up, and the sun was shining quite cheerfully again. There was a freshness and a fragrance in the air that was very grateful to us. Our road was level at first, then we had a stiffish climb up to Manton-on-the-Hill, a forsaken-looking village of stone-built houses set on a height and grouped around an ancient church that looked so pathetically old. Most of the houses there were gray with age and picturesque besides, with porches, mullioned windows, and moulded gables, one of the latter being surmounted by a quaint sun-dial. We just took a glance at the interior of the crumbling church which was interesting; but an old woman we discovered there sweeping the floors interested us even more, for humanity, _when characteristic_, is ever better worth study than mere inert matter. She concluded her long life’s story by saying that she was seventy-two, and cleaned the church and blew the organ, as it was a little help towards living, her husband being paralysed, “and he’s only seventy-seven.” Just as though it were a reproach to him his being helpless at that early age!

A “give and take” road with more takes than gives, it seemed to us, brought us to Uppingham, where we found a comfortable hotel. Here, while the daylight lasted, we took a stroll round the town, and admired the new school buildings in the course of erection. Then we went into one or two shops to make a few purchases. At the first of these we remarked to the shopman, “You’ve got a fine school here.” His reply rather took us aback. “Yes, we have,” said he. “It’s all school here now and no town; we’re as school-ridden as Spain is priest-ridden,” and he spoke like a man who was sorely vexed in his soul about something; but he would not condescend to any explanations, so we left him and went to a stationer’s shop for some trifle. Here we saw a photograph of a fine ruined mansion that attracted us from its manifest former importance, so we inquired where it was. “Oh, that’s Kirby,” we were told; “it’s near Rockingham, and some seven miles from here. It’s well worth seeing. It was once nearly purchased for a residence for George III. It’s a grand old place all falling to ruin, as you see.” Upon this we purchased the photograph, and determined to visit Kirby the next day, as we found we could take it on our way by a slight detour.

[Sidenote: _A CHARMING VILLAGE_]

It was a grand drive over a wild open country to Rockingham, a charming village nestled at the foot of a wooded hill, which was crowned by a modernised feudal castle known locally as “the Windsor Castle of the Midlands.” Here, with our usual good-fortune, we were permitted to see the gardens and the interior of the castle. We entered the courtyard through a great arched gateway, guarded on either hand by two massive round towers built in the Edwardian age, and as strong and substantial now as then. First we strolled round the old garden enclosed by a high stone wall. Alongside of this wall runs a broad terrace, from which elevated position looking down we had a glorious and space-expressing prospect over the wild Welland valley, bounded to the north by the wilderness of Lincolnshire hills showing green, gray, and faintly blue.

The interior of the castle is interesting. This, with the treasures stored therein, would need pages of description to do them justice. On the roofbeam of the entrance-hall we noticed the following motto painted:--“This Howse Shall Be Preserved And Never Will Decaye Wheare The Almightie God Is Honored And Served Daye By Daye, 1579.” Here is an iron treasure-chest that once belonged to King John. In the old Elizabethan gallery are a number of interesting paintings by Van Dyke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and other famous artists. Here also was pointed out to us a portrait supposed by some authorities to represent Queen Elizabeth when an infant, but it is of doubtful authenticity. Want of space unfortunately prevents my giving further particulars of this old historic pile set in its romantic park, rich in wood and charmingly varied by rugged hill and deep dale.

We had a stiff climb out of Rockingham when we reached high ground, and turning to our left gradually descended to a well-wooded valley. In the heart of this we espied the ruined mansion of Kirby, situated low in a wild and desolate-looking park, and some half mile or so from the public road. Driving under the time-grayed gateway here, we had presented to us a vision of picturesque and pathetic decay. The vast mass of ruins attests the former grandeur of the place. When we were there cows were feeding in its grass-grown courtyards, portions of the structure were roofless, and the mullioned windows glazeless, birds wandered in and out of its deserted chambers, and weeds found lodgment in the crevices of its weather-beaten walls. It was a scene of desolation. But what struck us amongst the decay of roof, floor, panel, and window was the enduring quality of the stone-work. The masonry appeared little injured by mere age or weathering, it being damaged chiefly by the tumbling down of roofs and floors; the fine carvings on the stones being almost as sharp as when first chiselled centuries now ago. It would be interesting to learn where this splendid stone was quarried; it is manifestly magnificent building material. Architects might do worse than study this question. There is no doubt as to the designer of this stately mansion, for John Thorpe’s plans of it are preserved in the Soane Museum, endorsed in his handwriting, “Kirby, whereof I layd the first stone, 1570.”

[Sidenote: _A NORTHAMPTONSHIRE PROVERB_]

We were now in Northamptonshire that, according to the proverb, has

More spires and more squires
More bells and more wells

than any other county.