Chapter X (4)

To these remarks of the Bishop I here add some valuable observations made by Mr. Albert Hartshorne, F.S.A., in a Paper read before the Archæological Institute, {247} and reprinted for private circulation, on “Kirkstead Chapel, and a remarkable monumental effigy there preserved.” He says: “Reared against the south wall at the west end is a monumental effigy in Forest marble, larger than life, of a man in the military costume of the first quarter of the 13th century. He wears a cylindrical helm, a hauberk, apparently hooded, a short surcote, and a broad cingulum. The left arm is covered by a ponderous shield, and he draws a sword in a scabbard. He wears breeches of mail, but the legs, from the knees downward, are missing. The head rests upon a cushion, supported by conventional foliage. The occurrence of a cylindrical flat-topped helm in monumental sculpture is, of itself, sufficiently rare to merit a notice. There are two examples of it at Furness Abbey, two at Chester-le-street, one at Staindrop, and one at Walkern,—seven only in all, so far as appears to be known. They occur in the seals of Hen. III., Edward I., Alexander II. of Scotland, and Hugh de Vere. Actual examples of such headpieces are certainly of the utmost rarity. There is a very genuine one in the Tower, and another at Warwick Castle. Some sham ones were in the Helmet and Mail Exhibition, held in the rooms of the Institute in 1880, and are suitably exposed in the illustrated catalogue of this interesting collection.” “Banded mail,” as it is called, has been one of the archæological difficulties “of the past and present generations, and the late Mr. Burges took great trouble in endeavouring to unravel the mystery of its construction . . . having casts made from the only four then known . . . effigies (with it) at Tewkesbury, Tollard Royal, Bedford, and Newton Solney; but . . . he had to confess, in the end, that he could make nothing satisfactory of it. Here, at Kirkstead, is the fifth known sculptured example of banded mail in the kingdom, and . . . it is the earliest example of all . . . it resembles most the Newton Solney type; but I can throw no light upon the mail’s construction, though I have long considered the subject, and must leave the matter as I found it, twenty years ago, a mystery. If we are to suppose, as the Bishop Suffragan has suggested, that a local lord built Kirkstead chapel, then I am disposed to think, with him, that that lord was Robert de Tattershall and Kirkstead, who died in 1212. The date of that chapel may certainly be of about the same period, namely, a little after the time of St. Hugh of Lincoln, and co-eval with the Early English work of the second period in Lincoln Cathedral. The effigy may very well have been set up to the memory of Robert de Tattershall, a few years after his death.”

So far the Bishop and Mr. Hartshorne. We have only to add that, some time in the forties, certain alterations were made, such as removing the thatched roof and covering it with slates, taking away much rotten timber and replacing it with fresh. Some so-called “unsightly beams” were also removed, but they had probably been introduced at a very early period, and it was, probably, also mainly due to them that the walls had not fallen further outward than they had done. Whereas now, without any such support, and with the massive stone roof pressing upon them, the destruction of the building must be only a question of time, and that not a very long one, unless some remedy is applied. I have a note, from Baron Hubner’s “Travels through the British Empire,” {249} that “when the town of Melbourne, in Australia, in 1836, was yet a small scattered village, with wooden houses, wooden church, &c., a tree was the belfry.” At that same period the bell of Kirkstead chapel also hung in a tree, still standing at the south-west corner of the churchyard. Climbing up, a few years ago, to examine the bell, I found the following, cut in the lead under the bell turret: “Thomas Munsall, Nottingham, August, 1849; Edward Gadsby, Nottingham, Aug., 1849. George Whitworth (of Kirkstead), Joiner.” The two former slated the roof, and the last was the local carpenter. The history of this church in modern times, as a place of worship, has bean peculiar. The estate, having been bestowed upon the Fiennes Clintons by Henry VIII., passed, in the 18th century, by marriage, to the Disneys and the benefice, being a Donative and, therefore, almost private property, Mr. Daniel Disney, being a Presbyterian, appointed a minister of that persuasion to officiate; also endowing it with lands which produced a stipend of £30 a year in 1720. This gift was confirmed by his Will. Presbyterian ministers continued to hold it till the death of a Mr. Dunkley in 1794. The manor had then been sold to the Ellison family, and a suit was instituted to recover the benefice to the Church of England; the case was tried at Lincoln Assizes in 1812, when, by a compromise, the fabric was restored to the Church of England; but the Presbyterian endowment remained in the hands of trustees, who subsequently erected a Presbyterian chapel at Kirkstead, and in more recent times, a manse was built in connection with it, now occupied by the Rev. R. Holden. Dr. John Taylor, of Norwich, was one of the ministers appointed by Mr. Disney. He held it some 18 years, from 1715, and here composed his Concordance, in 2 vols. In 1876 the church was visited by the Architectural Society, when, in consequence of its dangerous condition, it was closed by order of the Bishop, awaiting restoration, and it awaits it still.

Of this interesting structure no one can get any view of the interior beyond (strange to say) what can be seen through the keyhole. May we hope that the Rontgen Rays may soon be sufficiently developed to enable us to photograph it through the boards of the ancient door, the hinges of which, we may add, are worthy of notice. I conclude these remarks upon it with the words of a former owner, {250a} who was inspired to write of it thus:—

This ancient chanel! Still the House of God,
And boasting still the consecrated sod,
’Neath which, where ancient oaks, wide-spreading, shade,
The rude forefathers of the place were laid.
Fair, too, as ancient, is that holy place,
Its walls and windows richest traceries grace;
While clusters of the lightest columns rise,
And beauties all unlooked for, there surprise.
’Twas well, when Ruin smote the neighbouring Pile,
It spared this humbler Beauty to defile.
. . . . . . . . .
O! ’Tis a gem of purest taste, I ween,
Though little it be known, and seldom seen.

The writer may add that he has himself twice made strenuous efforts, backed most earnestly by the late Bishop Wordsworth, and has sent out many hundreds of appeals for aid, to prevent this little gem going to ruin; but, owing to apathy and indifference, where they should not have been found, those efforts proved futile. He can only reiterate the warning words of Mr. Albert Hartshorne:—“I know not whether such aid will be forthcoming; but of two things I am quite certain: if nothing is done the chapel must collapse, and that very soon; and when it does so fall, it will become such an utter ruin that it would be quite impossible to put it up again.” {250b}

One more historical incident, of more than local interest, may here just be mentioned. It has already been stated that after the Dissolution the Abbey lands were granted by Henry VIII. to Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and that, on the death of his issue the King granted them to the Fiennes Clinton family, in the person of Lord Clinton and Saye, afterwards Earl of Lincoln. In this family they remained for several generations, until by marriage they passed to the Disneys. In the time of the unhappy King Charles I., families were often divided, one party remaining true to the Sovereign, and a relative espousing the cause of the Commonwealth. But Henry Clinton, alias Fynes, remained staunch to his King, providing horse and arms for the Royalist cause. This, no doubt, brought him not a few enemies; and in consequence he had the great compliment paid him of being granted a deed of “Protection” by his grateful sovereign. We cannot give the whole here, but it is entitled “Protection of Mr. Henry Fynes & his Wyfe.”

“(Endorsed) by Major Markham of ye Lyfeguards,” and is headed “Charles R . . . whereas Wee are informed that Henry Fynes of Christed Abbey . . . and his wyfe are, and have been, in all these rebellious times, persons very loyall and well affected to us and our service, wee are graciously pleased to grant them this our speciall Protection, &c., &c. . . . given at our Court at Oxford ye 7th day of February, 1643.” A fac-simile copy of the original is given in “Linc. N. & Q.,” vol. i. (1889), p. 22.

To any of his kith and kin who may still be living among us, and they are not few, it may be a pleasure and a pride to reflect that their ancestor “of Christed” shewed himself a true man in times when it needed some courage to do so. None of them could have a better motto to abide by, in all things, than that of the head of the House, “Loyaltè n’a honte,” Loyalty is not ashamed.

Our lengthy peregrinations have now brought us, once more, within a mile of Woodhall Spa; thither let us proceed, “rest and be thankful.”

* * * * *

And now, gentle readers, it would seem we have arrived at a fitting “period, or full stop,” in our somewhat arduous undertaking; and here we might well shake hands and finally part company,—we would fain hope, with a hearty “au revoir.”

I find myself much in the mood of the Alpine guide who feels that he has had more than one long day with his trusty alpenstock, although with a willing heart in the work, and, we might say, even proud that he has been able to show his party through so many attractive scenes. He stands, as it were, before them, hat in hand {251} awaiting the “pour boire,” the due recompense of his services. Freely he has given, freely he hopes to receive, that he may retire to his quiet châlet on the hill, where he may rest awhile, till perchance he finds a fresh engagement. But, at this juncture, he is accosted by one of the party to this effect: “Mon cher Guide Walder, you have taken us through more than one enjoyable round in your interesting country. We have looked with pleasure upon many a long vista in the past, and on many a wide-spreading prospect of varied character. You have, indeed, given us a bonne-bouche, to finish with, in Kirkstead, but we would ask, ‘Why have you omitted Somersby, Somersby not so very far away, and hallowed as the birth-place of the Bard of the Century, who is reckoned as one of the High Priests of Poesy, wherever our English tongue is spoken?’” We confess the omission. Our apology is, that our excursions have already, in the more immediate neighbourhood, been only too long. As to Somersby, as its associations are _sui generis_, so it lies in a direction of its own; not easily to be combined with other places of interest; but the fault can be remedied. Quid multa? A short supplementary excursion is arranged; and we are to muster on the morrow for the last, but not least, of our Looks at Lincolnshire.

SUPPLEMENTARY.

In the year 1890, an enthusiastic Tennysonian, giving an account in the “Globe” newspaper, of an excursion to Somersby, which he approached from Louth, says that he was somewhat disgusted to find that his Jehu, though familiar with every ragamuffin on the road, and with the gossip and traditions of the villages through which they passed, had never heard the name of Tennyson. Somersby itself, at the time when Tennyson there enjoyed ramble and reverie, was so withdrawn from the outer world that it is said that the battle of Waterloo was not heard of there until a month after it had been fought. But all this has now been changed, and is changing. Not long ago, the proprietor of Somersby (now, alas! an absentee), complained to the writer that his carpets were being worn into holes by the feet of the many pilgrims to this modern poetic “Mecca,” who seemed to think they had a right freely to intrude everywhere; with the barren compensation to himself that his paternal home was becoming historical. Sympathising fully with the country squire whose privacy has been thus invaded, we are now ourselves about to make the pilgrimage, which may soon be as common as that to the birthplace of the immortal Bard of Avon.

Having arrived at Horncastle by train, or otherwise, we pass through the town, by Market-place, Bull Ring, and over the far bridge, where we turn due eastward, by East street. At the end of a mile or so we arrive at High Toynton, with a modern church of Spilsby sandstone on our right, in good condition, but of no special interest; here we turn to the left, and 100 yards further on, again eastward to the right. We are now on the Wolds, and have before us a steady rise, followed by three steepish descents with their corresponding rises, till, as we approach Holbeck Hall, we see before us, to the left, a hill in the shape of an obtuse truncated cone. This is Hoe Hill (Norse ‘hof,’ holy and so possibly a sacred place for heathen worship; or, the Norse ‘haugr’ or ‘howe,’ a burial place, possibly the resting-place of some Viking chief, the names all round having Danish elements). It has a Dyke, or scarpment, running round it, like a collar, and was probably a British or Danish encampment; geologically it consists of ironstone, quite distinct from the sandstone formation on the lower ground. At Holbeck it is worth the while to turn in at the Lodge gate, and proceed some 250 yards along the drive, when we find ourselves among very pretty scenery; the modern Hall confronting us, built by the late J. Fardell, Esq., who was M.P. for Lincoln for about a week. We pause in a woody dell with a picturesque lake and rocks on each side of us. (N.B.—In these rocks the badger still survives). Retracing our steps into the main road again, and some 200 yards back towards Horncastle, by a guide-post the road turns off southward, and, following this, we arrive at Ashby Puerorum, or Ashby “of the boys,” so called to distinguish it from the other two Ashbys, not far off, the name being derived from the fact that certain lands in the parish are appropriated to the maintenance of the choristers of Lincoln Cathedral, the Dean and Chapter being patrons of the benefice. The road here is somewhat tortuous, but we find our way to the church, the chancel of which was restored by the patrons in 1869, and the rest of the building in 1877. It is a small fabric, consisting of nave, north aisle, chancel, small porch, and western tower. The main building is Early English. A lancet window still remains in the south wall, and at the west end of the aisle. The other windows of the nave are mostly Perpendicular. On the south side of the chancel is a two-light, square-headed, decorated window. The arcade has two chamfered arches, on low cylindrical piers. The tower is a low, stunted example of Perpendicular, the green sandstone picturesquely patched with brick. The west doorway is well proportioned, and the three-light Perpendicular window above, and the tower arch, are plain but good. There is a plain octagonal font. On the south wall is a brass to Richard Littlebury, of Stainsby, in the parish (obiit 1521); his wife Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Edmund Jenny, of Suffolk (died 1523); and their ten children. The brass, according to Haines, was not cut till 1560, at the same time with another of a knight in armour, now without inscription, but probably one of the six sons of the above. In the pavement is a the incised slab of blue marble, representing a priest in Eucharistic vestments, with chalice on the breast. The head, hands, chalice, and other portions were of brass, but these have disappeared. As has been elsewhere stated, in 1794, a Roman sepulchre was discovered three feet below the surface,—a stone chest, containing an urn of strong glass of greenish hue. The urn held small pieces of calcined bone, and, among them, a small lacrimatory of very thin green glass. Sir Joseph Banks thought it not improbable that, some day, the site of a Roman villa might be found near at hand. {254}

We again take to the main road, due eastward, and at the distance of another mile or so, we arrive at a steep descent, embowered in lofty trees; and, at the foot of this, “The Brook,” immortalized by the Laureate, winds its musical way beneath the road, under a bridge. To the left we see its course (where the writer has ofttimes “tickled” his trout), through a green meadow, as it issues from the wood named “Holy Well.” To the right it speeds onward through low-lying lands until it is lost in the distance.

Proceeding along the narrow lane,—so narrow, indeed, that only at certain points can two vehicles pass each other, and shut in by banks of sandstone,—we reach, on the right, a well in the rock, the latter green and grey with moss, lichen and fern, the water clear as crystal. It is, indeed, a lonely, quiet spot, fit place for musing meditation, in a poet’s wanderings. Just a cottage or two to remind one that there is a population, but not obtrusive. The rectory is the second, and larger, of two houses on the right, though now occupied as a farmhouse. It is a quaint, unpretending, old-time residence, uniting manor house and rectory in one. At its eastern end is a semi-ecclesiastical addition, with pointed windows having coloured glass of no particular merit. In the ground-floor apartment in this is a carved mantlepiece, the work of the Laureate’s father. Just beyond is a brick castellated building, “The Grange,” said to have been designed by Vanbrugh. Its construction is massive, and its curious cellars and other details make it something of a “Romance in brick.” Certainly it is a fair example of that solid style of building which gave rise to his (suggested) epitaph,—

Lie heavy on him, Earth; for he
Laid many a heavy weight on thee.

One can hardly help feeling that it must have been a reduction from some original, more ambitious, design; and those gloomy cellars may well have harboured the smuggler, or his illicit hoards, in days when not only humbler boards, but the table of parson and squire, boasted unblushingly of the “Schiedam” which had not paid duty, and was thought the better of it. This house is the reputed home of Tennyson’s “Northern Farmer,” whose dialect, however, as given by the poet, is generally considered by experts, however picturesque, to be considerably overdrawn. {255} In Somersby itself, except for its secluded beauty, there would be little to interest the visitor were it not for its association with the early years of the Tennysons. And one of the present writer’s earliest recollections is, as a small boy, driving his sisters, in a donkey cart through the village; when they were accosted by two strollers on the road, one of whom was Alfred Tennyson, then on a visit to the rectory, and not yet Laureate.

The Church of Somersby has little of interest, beyond a small brass with kneeling figure of George Littlebury, dated 1612; a stoup in the porch, and over the porch a sundial, with the legend “Time passeth,” dated 1751. The tower, however, has two good mediæval bells. In repairing the tower in 1883, a fine window in its western face was removed and replaced by an inferior one (Saunders “Hist.,” vol. ii., p. 173). The modern restoration, with bright tiling of the floor, gives a brand-new appearance, rather out of keeping with the almost crumbling low tower, and rustic surroundings. The one really interesting feature is the churchyard cross. It is of Perpendicular date, tall, well designed, and with octagonal shaft gracefully tapering from the base to a corona, and having above that a cross, which, possibly owing to the very retired position of the village, has escaped the iconoclast. It has, on one side, the Crucifixion, and on the other the Virgin and Infant Saviour. It is almost unique in its very good state of preservation, the Puritans having generally ruthlessly mutilated such erections. Several models of it, in bronze, were made some years ago to the order of the late Mr. C. J. Caswell, and were speedily sold off as memorials of Tennyson. It has also recently been reproduced in the churchyard of Huttoft, in this county, where the church was restored, in 1895, by Mr. W. Scorer, architect, of Lincoln.

One of the places visited should be Holy Well wood. It is a leafy dell, where tower up lofty trees still vigorous, while others are lying rotting on the ground.

Nature in her old wild way,
Life blending closely with decay.

The thin stream twines about their roots, or springs over sandstone bars, in sylvan, solitude. The spot was described, years ago, by Howitt in his “Homes and Haunts of English Poets.” A local authority says that, once upon a time, a series of steps led down to the well, where an upright post was fixed, and a cross-bar from it was secured to the rock. On this cross-bar was an iron ring and a cable, by which a bather could let himself down for a dip in the well; and an old servant of the Tennyson family could remember when numbers of people came to take the water, which was considered to have health-giving properties. {256}

The manor of Somersby goes with that of Bag Enderby, and the benefices are held together, being barely a mile apart. The church of the latter is rather more interesting than that of Somersby, and it would be a pity not to see it, while we are so far, or near. It was built by Albin de Enderby, who died in 1407. Some of the windows, as the three-light one at the east end of the chancel, and others are Perpendicular; while others are of the Decorated style, but probably of the same date. There is some interesting old iron-work on the original oak door in the porch. The font is octangular, Perpendicular; on the bowl is carved the figure of the Virgin, supporting on her knees the dead body of the Saviour; a shield, on which is cut the spear, and hyssop with sponge, crosswise; the cross and crown of thorns; a deer couchant with head turned back, and feeding on the leaves of a tree; and other more ordinary devices. The chancel arch is fine, and there are some remains of a screen. All the windows would seem to have been originally filled with delicately-painted 14th century glass, of which fragments retrain. In the westernmost window of the south wall of the nave is a shield bearing the arms of Croyland Abbey. In the central alley of the nave are two fine Purbeck marble slabs, bearing legends on brass plates. {257} On the north wall of the chancel is a stone mural monument commemorating Andrew and Dorothy Gedney, with their two sons and two daughters, kneeling before two prayer-desks, in the costume of their period. In the churchyard is the base of a cross, the upper part having been removed some years ago. The font stands on a sepulchral slab, which has been ruthlessly cut into for the purpose.

As the name Enderby is sometimes, in old documents, written Hinterby, an idea has been broached that the prefix “Bag,” means “back,” or “hinder-by.” But, as we are in the region of sand and sandstone, abounding in burrows, it would seem more likely that the Bag is the badger; after a similar form to Bagshot, in Surrey, _i.e._, Bag or Badger’s holt; Bagley, near Oxford; Badgeworth, near Cheltenham (from which last neighbourhood the writer has a badger-skin), &c. An alternative derivation, of course, is the word Bag, or Bage, _i.e._, “turf,” for fuel, which might be not unlikely in Lincolnshire; but as “Bag” enters into place-names all over the kingdom, where the word “Bag,” for turf, is not used, this is hardly a likely explanation.

A short extension of our travels eastwards, through pretty scenery, with bold rising ground—Somersby Top, Warden Hill, &c.—capped by woods, brings us to Harrington, where we find an interesting old mansion belonging to Sir H. D. Ingilby, built in the reign of James II. with old-time garden, having parterres and terraces and extensive lawns, but, unfortunately, not at present occupied, and much decayed. There is a very interesting church, almost entirely rebuilt by the late Rector, Rev. R. W. Cracroft, in 1855, but retaining a series of fine monuments of his own connections, the Knightly family of the Coppledykes; the earliest of these, Sir John de Harrington, temp. Edward I., was a Crusader. His effigy lies on an altar tomb, beneath an arch in the south wall, at the east end of the nave. He is in complete armour, cross-legged, his hands joined in prayer. The next is a slab in the chancel floor, once having brass effigies, but which, with the inscription, have been removed. It commemorated John Coppledyke and his wife Margaret Tilney, and bore date 1480. Her effigy is now affixed to the wall of the chancel. The third is that of John Coppledyke, who died in 1552. Then there is the recessed altar-tomb of his son, also John, who died in 1585. It is in the Tudor style, altar and canopy all of Purbeck marble. Opposite is the monument of his brother Francis and his wife, the former dying in 1590. Then come tombs of the Elizabethan and Jacobean period. This typical series closes with the tomb of Thomas, the nephew of Francis, described in the epitaph as “the last and best of his race.” The tower and font are the originals preserved; the latter bears on one of its faces the arms of Tilney impaling Coppledyke, shewing that it was the joint gift of John and Margaret, towards the end of the fifteenth century.

We have taken these latter two churches because they lie within easy reach from Somersby, the main object of our excursion, and they add to its interest. We now turn homewards again, but by a different route. We might, from Somersby, have visited Salmonby, barely a mile away, where there is a restored church with some interesting features; and we might also have included a visit to Tetford, a large village or small town, equi-distant from Somersby, with a fairly large church, but in a very bad condition and much needing careful restoration. But these we are constrained to omit, as the day’s excursion is to be a short one. From Harrington, we turn south-west, and climb a hill of some mile in extent, to the pleasant village of Hagworthingham, where we find a model church, beautifully situated. It has been largely rebuilt, but retains some ancient features, which show that the structure was originally Early English. This style has been retained. The church has nave, chancel, south aisle, tower and south porch. The arcade is of four bays, with arches rising from low cylindrical piers, with moulded capitals, earlier than the arches which they support. These low arches give a kind of “dim religious light” to the fabric. The antiquarian, Gervase Holles, says {259} of this church: “On a gravestone of blue marble, in ye body of ye Church is pourtrayed in brasse one in compleat armour, bearing upon ye manches of his coate of armes on either side 2 crescents. Between his feet a right hand couped. The rest is defaced.” At the present time the whole of this is gone. The font has a plain octagonal basin, supported by a group of Early English shafts. The tower is low and square, its greenish sandstone being relieved by an intermixture of brick, and has a good peal of bells. The church is well cared for in every way, and its position perfect. Three-quarters of a mile south there is a very interesting church at Lusby, but, although some of its peculiar features would well repay a visit, it is slightly out of our beat, and we must draw the line somewhere. We have between four and five miles of steep hills and valleys between us and Horncastle, a route which cannot be hurried over, and we must push on. From Greetham Hill, on a clear day, we command a view across the Wash, into Norfolk, to our left, while to our right we again see towering up, 25 miles away, the mass of Lincoln Minster.

The peculiar feature of this supplementary excursion is that it affords a revelation to those strangers to Lincolnshire who imagine the county to be flat as a billiard table. We have been truly travelling, as was said by a Dutch sportsman, 300 years ago (whom I have quoted in a previous chapter), in “Lincolniensi montium tractu” (“Fuller’s Worthies,” p. 150), “among the mountains of Lincolnshire.”

Here we bring our Records and excursions to a close. Like Vikings of old (under a figure) we have harried the country round, and (in a sense) ravished its many charms. We have explored shrines consecrated by olden memories, enriched by the associations of centuries; but (unlike the Vikings), we have done this in no irreverent spirit, and with no predatory purpose. We have carried off our hoards of treasure, but we have left no ill traces behind us of our raid. No burning monasteries or homesteads have marked our track; no orphaned children or widowed wives follow us with their execrations. Enriching ourselves, we have not impoverished others, and the country is still open for further investigation, with, doubtless, many a nook yet unexplored, and many a mushy folio unopened, whence others may extract materials of further interest. On the whole we trust that our readers will endorse the words of a Lincolnshire man whom we have already quoted more than once, {260} that, although ours may be “a county which few have defended, still fewer have praised, and too many have depreciated”; yet that it does possess many objects and associations of no small interest, and that not the least of these are to be found in the Records of Woodhall Spa, and its neighbourhood.

This is hardly the place to moralise, nor have we space to do so to more than a very limited extent; yet two reflections seem to force themselves upon us as the result of the archæological enquiries which have produced the last three chapters of this work. One of these is the evil consequences of a barren formalism in religion. The monkish perfunctory services, with their “vain repetitions” and “long players,” reduced the individual well-nigh to the level of a praying machine, which could run off, as it were, from the reel, so many litanies in a given time, with little effort of intellect, and only a blind exercise of faith; both fatal to religious vitality. The dissolution of the monasteries, which were, perhaps, more abundant in our own neighbourhood than in any other similarly limited area in the kingdom, is not only a fact in history, but also may be an object-lesson in a different age. At the close of the enlightened 19th century we witnessed a church—may I not almost say, a nation?—convulsed over questions of religious ceremonial, which, to minds endeavouring to take a sober and unbiassed view, seem bordering on the puerile, compared with the weightier matter of the religion of heart and life. We can hardly help exclaiming, “Oh, that practical Englishmen would spend their energies on larger issues rather than thus give a handle to their enemies!” There is such a thing as “having the form of godliness without the indwelling power thereof.” From such let us turn away, or history may, even yet, repeat itself.

There can be no doubt that the plunder of the monasteries was primarily, though not avowedly, caused by the greed of a master mind, in Wolsey—whose extravagance needed “the sinews of war,” acting upon a desire for revenge, deeply seated in the heart of a Sovereign, self-convicted we may well believe, but stubbornly clinging to his sin; whose unjustifiable act, in the divorce of Catherine of Aragon, outraged the national sense of right, but especially was condemned by the religious orders. Yet, none the less, though brought about by unworthy motives, and the result, as it were, of side issues, the destruction of those institutions, with all their virtues and their manifold usefulness, coincided with a condition of things, widely prevalent, which rendered them only “fit for the burning.” They had, indeed, served their generation, and more than one, but they had become “carrion” in the nostrils, and, “where the carcase” was, “the vultures” of retribution, almost in the natural order of events, were “gathered together.”

A second reflection tends in an opposite direction.

A reactionary sentiment of our day is to make an idol of the great figure-head of Puritanism. We had lately (April 25, 1899) a celebration of the Tercentenary of Cromwell; in the place of his birth he has been made use of (by a strange stroke of irony) as an apostle of education. Projects are on foot for erecting his statue in positions of honour. Yet we see still in our own neighbourhood, as well as elsewhere, traces of the almost universal desecration of our holy places perpetrated by the fanaticism which he fostered and guided. Was Henry VIII. an Iconoclast, in shattering the monasteries? No less was the crime of Puritanism in dismantling our churches and stripping them of treasures which were beyond price. The antiquarian Carter says, “Before the hand of destruction wrought such fatal devastation, every sacred edifice throughout England, whether of confined or extended dimensions, teemed with a full and resplendent show of painted glass, all equally excellent, all equally meritorious” (Remarks on York Minster, Winkle’s “Cathedrals,” vol. i., p. 54, n. 30). In confirmation of this I take two instances: Four miles away we have the fine Church of Coningsby, and we have in these pages (pp. 222–226) a detailed description of the splendid series of coloured windows which formerly adorned that church. We ask, “Where are they now?” and echo can only reiterate “Where?” But for Gervase Holles, a Lincolnshire man and formerly M.P. for Grimsby, we should not now know that they ever existed. We take another case, one of the humblest structures in our neighbourhood, the church of Langton, and we have records given by the same authority of windows once existing here whose blazonry connected it with the ancient families of Everingham, de Seyrt, Skipwith, Bec, Ufford, and Willoughby. Where are they now? The wave of Puritanism has swept away every trace of them. Somersby indeed retains its churchyard cross, almost an isolated instance. The Puritan axe and hammer missed it, no thanks to them. The beautifully-carved fragments of destroyed monasteries, preserved perhaps as relics on our garden rockeries warn us of the dangers of mere formalism in religion. The Puritan spoliation of our holy places warns us against fanaticism and irreverence. Turn neither to the right hand nor to the left. In medio tutissimus ibis. We may well “hark back” to the devotion of our forefathers, but from either extreme, Domine, dirige nos.

And now there only remains the duty, or, rather, the privilege, of saying one parting word more. A Preface may be called a pre-post-erous production, because, though standing at the head of a book, it is almost invariably written after the book is finished, and when the author can take a general review of his work. In the present instance this was impossible. The exigencies of the situation—these Records first appearing as a weekly series in “The Horncastle News”—required that the Introduction, to stand at their head, should be written when the work itself was yet only an embryo conceived in the writer’s brain. He may truly be said to have begun _ab ovo_. He knew, indeed, generally, his own intentions, but he could not possibly, as yet, tell the exact form in which they would be embodied, and, as an unavoidable consequence, in the present case, as in not a few others, what should naturally be the head is here found where the tail should be. The real Preface closes, instead of introducing, the writer’s work to his readers.

A general outline, indeed, of the work had been laid down on paper more than a dozen years ago. During that interval (as also for several years before it) the materials had been accumulating; but still, when the work actually began to take shape, the writer was standing, as it were, at one end of a coil, of which he could not see the other; the windlass was letting down a chain into depths which his eye could not penetrate, nor his knowledge yet reach.

The outline originally sketched out has really in one only particular been departed from, but, in the process of its evolution, the thread has considerably stretched. The Clotho of its destiny has spun a longer web than had been foreseen by the writer. On coming to closer quarters with his subject, materials multiplied beyond his expectations, and but for the pruning knife, the result would have been still larger than it is.

How much the author is indebted to the previous industry of others is shewn by the number of the footnotes, and other references in the text, which together amount to close upon five hundred. Others have laboured and he has entered into their labours, and his object, in this, as it were, post-prandial utterance, is to own, with gratitude, the varied viands—epulæ lautissimæ—which he has found spread before him. He would say, with Cicero, opipare epulati sumus; and yet there are many baskets of fragments left.

He would also here express his thanks for the unvaried kindness with which his personal visits, in search of local information, have been welcomed; for the helpful response always made to his enquiries; as well as for the sympathy shewn towards his undertaking. But for these the work could not have attained its present dimensions, nor could much of its most interesting matter have been obtained; while, further they have made the work a task of real pleasure to himself. He can only say, in conclusion that if others should find, in the perusal of these pages, even a tithe of the entertainment which he has himself found in the compilation of them, he will be more than satisfied—gratified—by the result.

A GLOSSARY OF LINCOLNSHIRE WORDS & PHASES.

_Argufy_. To matter, be of importance. “It does not argufy at all,” _i.e._ “It does not signify,” or “It makes no difference.”

_Bab_. A sort of dredge, with hooks below it, to clear out fen drains of the weeds.

_Bage_. A paring of turf formerly used for fuel.

_Bandy-ball_. The game of hockey, also called shinty or shindy.

_Banker_. A navvy employed in digging or repairing fen drains.

_Bat_. A small bundle of straw or grass.

_Battle-twig_. An earwig.

_Baulk_. Hiccough.

_Bealto_. To squeal, or bawl, used of a child screaming.

_Beastlings_. The first milk drawn from a cow after calving, which is specially rich.

_Beck_. A brook. Reed’s beck, Odd’s beck.

_Bested_. Beaten. “He will best you,” _i.e._ get the better of you.

_Bevering-time_. Luncheon time. Compare “Beverage.”

_Blowns_. Exclamation of surprise. Compare “Zounds,” (supposed to be a contraction of “God’s wounds.”) Blowns probably a contraction of “blood and wounds,” _i.e._ of Christ.

_Boon_, _to_. To repair the roads. The road surveyor was called the boon master.

_Bran in the face_. Freckles.

_Brat_. A child. Term of contempt, “Take that tiresome brat away.”

_Breed_. Each separate line of walk when a party is shooting through a wood.

_Breer_. The strip of grass between a ditch, and the ploughed land of a field. 3d. per chain was paid for cleaning out a ditch and mowing the breer.

_Brock_. Sheep dung dried to be used as fuel.

_Brog_. To pierce holes with a stick, &c. “Brog him in the ribs,” _i.e._ poke him.

_Bub_ or _bubbling_. A young bird, a fledgling.

_Bule-ding_. The common pronunciation of “building.”

_Bully_. The sloe, wild fruit of the black thorn. Bullace cheese is made from it.

_By-name_. A nick-name. Compare by-word _i.e._ ill-repute.

_Causey_. Causeway. Commonly used of the brick paved yard of a cottage.

_Cazzlety_. Fickle and uncertain in temper.

_Chickering_. Chirping of the cricket on the hearth, or of a chicken.

_Chittapag_. A woman fond of using fine words.

_Chuck_, _to_. To throw. Chuck-penny, to play at pitch and toss.

_Clagged_. Draggle-tailed with mud and dirt. Of an untidy woman.

_Clatty_. Dirty. Of roads after rain.

_Clegg_. Matted wool on hedges, &c.

_Clout_. A cloth, dish-cloth, &c.

_Clout_. A knock or blow, as “Fetch him a clout on the head.”

_Connyfogled_. Cheated, outwitted.

_Crizzle_, _to_. To crystalize or freeze. “The window is crizzled.”

_Daking_. A dyke or ditch.

_Dither_. To shudder with alarm or dislike. To shiver with cold.

_Dythe_. Cow dung dried for fuel.

_Fell_. Hurtful or fierce. “The flies are very fell this close weather.”

_Frit_. Frightened, affrighted.

_Gabblick_. A crowbar.

_Gallous_. Frisky or lively (of youth).

_Glegging_. Glancing slily. “That sly girl’s glegging eye.”

_Glib_. Smooth (of ice). Smooth and ready of tongue.

_Gout_. A sluice by which water passes from one drain to another.

_Gozny_. To look. To look stupid.

_Grizzley_. To shade with grey. “The evening is grizzling.”

_Hag’s place_. A situation of hard work and drudgery. Fit only for a poor hag.

_Hap up_, _to_. To wrap up, in shawl, paper, &c.

_Harr_. A fog. An old writer says “The air of the fens was crass, and full of rotten harrs.” A “sea-harr” is a fog coining inland from the sea.

_Heppen_. Handy at work. Helpful.

_Hing_, _to_. To hang. This gate hings well.

_Hirpling_. Limping in gait.

_How_. Way or mode of acting. “Do it i’ that how, and you’ll be right.”

_Hug_, _to_. To carry. “Hugging about a big load.”

_Ill-convenient_. Inconvenient.

_Keck_. A large plant of the Hemlock species.

_Kid_. A faggot.

_Lamb-toe_. The plant “Lady’s fingers,” Lotus corniculatus.

_Lap up_, _to_. To wrap up.

_Leather_. A ladder.

_Leathering_. A beating. “If you don’t keep quiet I’ll give you a good leathering.”

_Letten_. Perf. of to let. “He has letten ’em go,” _i.e._ allowed them to go.

_Lig_, _to_. To lie, down, &c.

_Lug_, _the ear_. The plant Mouse-ear (Myosotis Arvensis) is called mouse-lug.

_Lick_, _to_. To beat, “Give him a licking.” To be beyond anyone’s power. “It licks me how they can do it,” _i.e._ I cannot understand.

_Lug_, _to_. To drag. “Why are you lugging (_i.e._ dragging) that bairn about?”

_Marguery_. The herb Mercury, also called “Good King Henry.”

_Mithered_. Muddled, dazed, stupid.

_Mizzlings_. The measles.

_Moiling_. Working hard, toiling.

_Mort_. A large quantity. “Working a mort of hours,” _i.e._ many hours. “That tree has a mort of blossoms.”

_Mud_ or _mun_. Must. “I mun (or mud) do it or I shall be wrong.”

_Nag-nail_. A corn on the foot.

_Nautling_. Towering up, a steeple or tall tree.

_Neb_. A bird’s beak.

_Nobby_. Handy, clever, ready of resource.

_Nowt_. Nothing. Worth nowt means worthless, good-for-nothing.

_Overset_, _to_. To overcome or surmount trial. “He’s been very badly (_i.e._ ill) and cannot overset it,” _i.e._ get over it.

_Owry_. Dirty, of roads after rain.

_Pad_. Path. A footpad is a footpath.

_Pedigree_. A long story, as of some grievance.

_Petty_. An outside W.C.

_Pig’s-paut_. Pig’s foot, a trotter.

_Pismire_. An ant.

_Plasens_. Places. “I’ve seen many plasens but this licks ’em all.” (See lick.)

_Posy_. A bunch of flowers, bouquet.

_Pry_. Name of a field. Pry-close (from praie, coarse grass.)

_Puddock_. A kite or buzzard.

_Purr_. A poker. “Purr the fire,” _i.e._ poke it.

_Quirking_. Nimble, active, as a monkey.

_Ramper_. The highway (probably rampart).

_Remble_, _to_. To move a thing out of the way. “Remble that chair,” &c.

_Ratle_ or _Reightle_. To set to rights, arrange in order. “Lassy, ratle them things.”

_Screeved_. Split up on the ice. Cattle in former frozen fen floods were thus ruptured and killed.

_Shale_, _to_. To walk awkwardly, shuffle along.

_Shan_. Shy. Of horses or cattle frightened at an object.

_Shift_, _to_. To move anything to another place.

_Shiv_ or _Shiver_. A splinter of wood. “I’ve got a shiv in my finger.”

_Shout_! A flat-bottomed fen boat.

_Shove_, _to_. To push anything along, or out of the way.

_Shugh_! An expression of disbelief. Shugh! Nonsense! I don’t believe it.

_Shut_. Rid. To get shut (_i.e._ rid) of anything not needed, or a nuisance.

_Sicker_, _to_. To soak, as water oozing through a rotten bank.

_Sidle_. To walk aside, or indirectly, towards anyone. “Sidle up to her quietly.”

_Sile_, _to_. To pour. “It siles wi’ rain.”

_Skelp_, _to_. To empty a cart by tilting it.

_Skirth_. A fen drain.

_Slape_. Slippery, as roads after frost.

_Slappy_ or _sloppy_. Muddy and moist.

_Slither_, _to_. To slide on ice.

_Slive_, _to_. To slip or creep slowly on. “The night slives on.”

_Slosh_. Aslant, as a path running slosh across a field.

_Sloven_. The stump of a tree.

_Smock-raffled_. Taken aback, puzzled.

_Smower_, _to_. To pour over. “Yon tree smowers over wi’ fruit.”

_Snitchy_. Bad tempered, irritable.

_Soodle_, _to_. To daudle.

_Soodly_. Idle.

_Sooth_. Soft, gentle, of whispers, winds, &c.

_Souse_, _to_. To soak in water, &c.

_Spank_. To strike with flat hand. “Spank the tiresome bairn.”

_Splats_. Leggings or gaiters.

_Spry_. Lively, full of spirit.

_Squarls_. Quarrels.

_Stang_. A pole. Only used in eel-stang, a long pole with iron prongs at the end, thrust into the mud to catch eels; and in “riding the stang,” in the old custom of “rantanning,” to serenade with beaten tins and kettles the wife-beater, when a figure was carried disguised as the offender, sitting astride of a long pole.

_Stilted_. Daubed with dirt (stockings, &c.)

_Struttle_. A runnel, small stream between stepping stones.

_Suthering_. Sighing, as the wind in the trees.

_Swads_. Bean pods.

_Swail_. Shade. “Left in the swail,” away from the sun.

_Swingle_. A flail.

_Teem_, _to_. To overflow or be full. “He teems wi’ jokes.” “It teems wi’ rain.”

_Thruff_. Pronunciation of “through,” compare “enough,” Linc. enew.

_Tidy_. A pinafore. “Put on your tidy, my bairn.”

_Tray_. A hurdle.

_Trig_. Trim, neat, as trim as a pin.

_Tue_ or _tew_. To fret, chafe impatiently, tire oneself out.

_Undernean_. Underneath.

_Wakken_. Wide-awake, sharp, noticing everything.

_Wankling_. A weak child, also wreckling.

_Ware_, _to_. To spend. “Are you going to ware anything on me at the fair?”

_Wath_. A ford. “Kirkstead Wath,” “Shearman’s Wath.”

_Werrit_, _to_. To worry or fidget, in needless anxiety.

_Wopper_. Anything unusually large. “That bairn of yourn is a wopper.”

_Yocks_. The two chains on which buckets are hung from the shoulder board, when carrying water from the well.

_Yon_. Yonder. “Look at yon boy, what is he up to?”

_Yow_. Ewe, a female sheep.

_Yow-necked_. Of a horse with neck too thin.

_Yuck_, _to_. To jirk. “Yuck the reins to check the horse.”