A RAIL-LESS TOWN 215 the only inhabitants we saw were an old gaffer talking across a garden wall to a woman who stood in her doorway listlessly listening to him; we were much amused to hear the former suddenly exclaim, just as we passed by, "Why, bless my soul, I've been over half an hour here; I must go now and have a chat with old Mother Dash." It suggested to us that his life was mostly composed of gossiping, and that time was not such a priceless commodity at Falkingham as in most places. Here at least the hurry and rush, the stress and striving of the nineteenth century appear not to have penetrated, and humanity rusts rather than wears away. Can this be due to the mere absence of the railway, I wonder? Certainly where the iron horse does not penetrate, life seems to be lived at a lower pressure than elsewhere. A deep sense of repose hung over the whole place, a peacefulness that could possibly be felt; for a town it was unnaturally-painfully I might almost say-silent: in the heart of the country we could not have found a greater tranquillity! Having "done" the town and having added a few more pencil notes to our sketch-book, on glancing around we suddenly espied the church half hidden away in a corner to the left of our inn that somehow we had hitherto overlooked. Approaching the aged fane we noticed a great clockface on the weather-worn and hoary tower with a solitary wooden hand thereon pointing aimlessly down to six; it was then a few minutes to one, for we had lunched early, having started in the morning "betimes," to once again employ Mr. Pepys's favourite expression. For when driving across country it is well to have a long day before one; even then the whole day was sometimes too short! Affixed to the porch of the church we observed the following notice, that plainly tells its own tale of changed times and changed ways, and of an enlightened, up-to-date ecclesiasticism : Cyclists Welcomed Entering the building we heard a peculiar creaking noise, apparently proceeding from the tower above, that was in singular contrast with the otherwise profound stillness of the interior. This puzzled us, and, discovering a circular stone stairway that led up the tower, we promptly ascended it to solve the mystery. This eventually-after climbing over one hundred steps (we counted them)-took us into a small chamber, where we found the sexton winding up an ancient clock of curious design, an interesting specimen of medieval handicraft. I sincerely trust that no agent from South Kensington or other museum, or any emissary from Wardour Street, will unearth this antique "time-teller," or if unhappily they do, I trust that they will not be permitted to possess it, even though they promise a brand new clock in its place! I prefer to see such curiosities in their rightful positions, where they ought to remain their natural life undisturbed, and where alone they are in harmony with their surroundings. Many an ancient AN ELIZABETHAN CLOCK 217 The queer old clock helmet, that once hung over the recumbent effigy of its former knightly owner in the quiet village church, has been basely filched away to add to the collector's store, where they may only be seen by the favoured few, and why should this be? was being wound up, not by a key, but by a sort of miniature windlass. The works were of wrought iron, all hammered and cut by hand, for machinery manifestly had no part in their construction; perhaps that is why they have lasted so long! From our knowledge of such things, we concluded that this clock could not have been of later date than Elizabeth's time; how much earlier, if any, it would be hard to say. Unless, however, we are greatly mistaken, it has outlived three centuries, and has probably marked the hours all those long years, more or less correctly, whilst the cunning hands that designed and constructed it are forgotten dust. Here the inevitable moral should follow, but I refrain. This reminds me that I once gave my thirteen-year-old daughter an improving, well-intentioned book, and in due course I asked her how she liked it: "Well, dada," she replied, quite innocently, "when you've skipped all the goody bits there's nothing left!" A brass plate attached to the clock. informed us that W. Foster Anno Domini 1816. We understood that, so far as the sexton knew, it had not been repaired since that date. Then we called the sexton's attention to the fact that the face of the clock had but one hand, and that was loose and moved to and fro in the wind as helplessly as a weather-vane: "Yes," he replied with a grin, "I had to pull the other hand off; it caught in the wind so as to slow the clock, and when it blew hard sometimes it stopped her going altogether. I left the other hand on, as being loose it could do no harm"! This sounded a delightfully primitive way out of a mechanical difficulty; quite a stroke of rural genius! At the same time it appeared to us strangely inconsistent and illogical to have a clock going that did not show the time. "Lor' bless you, sir," responded he, "the old clock strikes the hours right enough, and that's all the folk want to know. Why, if the hands were going they'd never look up at 'em. Not they." What a lotus-eating land this, we thought, where people only care to know the hours, and take no thought of the intervals! Just then the sexton began to toll a loud bell vigorously. In reply to our query for the reason of this, he explained that it was the custom there to ring the bell every morning at eight o'clock, and again at one o'clock, "and it's one o'clock now, and so I'm ringing of it. I don't rightly know how old the custom be, but the bell be very useful, as it lets the people at work in the fields around know the time. We calls this the dinner bell. You see it carries farther than the sound of the clock striking." We then ventured to admire the old tower, a fine specimen of Perpendicular masonry, possessing some much-weathered, curious but rather coarse gargoyles outside. OUT OF THE BEATEN TRACK 219 The sexton also admired it: "It certainly be a fine tower; there's a wonderfully good view of the country round from the top. I allus goes up there when the hounds be out to see the run. I know no other tower in the district from which you can see so far. Now, if them old builders had only," etc., etc. I am afraid the sexton and ourselves regarded the old tower from two very dissimilar standpoints. Descending into the body of the church, we noticed a doorway in the south wall, and caught a peep of some stone steps beyond, leading, we were informed, to a chamber over the porch formerly used as a schoolroom, "now we only keep rubbish in it, odd tiles, broken bits of carvings, and the like. You can go up if you care to, but it be rare and dusty." We did care to go up. Indeed, in the fondness of our heart for such things we even dared to hope that perchance we might, to use an expressive term much favoured by antiquaries, come upon "a find" there. Here, we reasoned, is a fine and ancient church, well out of the beaten track of travel. The present interior suggested that it had once been richly adorned; presumably it had suffered, more or less, the fate of other ornate churches during the Commonwealth. Who can tell but that some quaint relic of its former beauty may not be stowed away up there amongst the rubbish? The very mention of "odd tiles" sounded encouraging, only supposing that there happened to be some quaint medieval ones amongst the number! So, full of pleasant anticipation, we eagerly ascended the steep stone steps, worn |