ON THE WOLDS 301 living map, with its countless fruitful fields, green meadows, many-tinted woods touched with autumnal gold, winding waterways, deep dykes, white roads, and frequent railways, space-diminished into tiny threads, its mansions, villages, towns, and ancient churches. Conspicuous amongst the last was the tall and stately tower of Boston's famous "stump," faintly showing, needle-like, in the dim, dreamy distance, and marking where the blue land met the bluer sea, for from our elevated standpoint the faroff horizon of the land, seen through the wide space of air, looked as though it had all been washed over with a gigantic brush dipped in deepest indigo. It was a wonderful prospect, a vision of vastness, stretching away from mystery to mystery. The eye could not see, nor the mind comprehend it all at once, and where it faded away into a poetic uncertainty the imagination had full play. It is ever in the far-off that the land of romance lies, the land one never reaches, and that is always dim and dreamy-the near at hand is plainly revealed and commonplace! Of course much depends on the eye of the beholder, but the vague and remote to conjure with have a certain charm and undoubted fascination for most minds. It was of such a prospect as this, it might even have been this very one, that Tennyson pictures in verse— Calm and deep peace on this high wold, Calm and still light on yon great plain That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, For we were now nearing the birthplace and early home of the great Victorian poet, and he was fond of wandering all the country round, and might well have noted this wonderful view. No poet or painter could pass it by unregarded! On this spreading upland the light sweet air, coming fresh and free over leagues of land and leagues of sea, met us with its invigorating breath. After the heavy, drowsy air of the Fens it was not only exhilarating but exciting, and we felt impelled to do something, to exert ourselves in some manner -this was no lotus-eating land-so for want of a better object we left the dogcart and started forth. on a brisk walk. One would imagine that all the energy of the county would be centred in the Wold region, and that the dwellers in the Fens would be slothful and unenergetic in comparison. Yet the very reverse is the case. The Wolds-townless and railless-are given over to slumberous quietude and primitive agriculture, its inhabitants lead an uneventful life free from all ambition, its churches are poor and small whilst the churches of the Fens in notable contrast are mostly fine and large, its hamlets and villages remain hamlets and villages and do not grow gradually into towns: it is a bit of genuine Old England where old customs remain and simple needs suffice. A land with Little about it stirring save a brook! A sleepy land, where under the same wheel On the other hand, the Fenland inhabitants appear to be "full of go" with their growing villages, A GLORIOUS UPLAND 303 prosperous towns, flourishing ports, railways, and waterways. It was energy that converted the wild watery waste of the Fens into a land smiling with crops; it is energy that keeps it so. As we progressed we lost sight of the Fens, and soon found ourselves in the midst of circling hills that bounded our prospect all around-hills that dipped gently down to shady, wooded valleys, and rose above them to bare, grassy, or fir-fringed summits, bathed in soft sunshine. Along the sloping sides of this glorious upland we could trace the narrow white country roads winding far away and wandering up and down till lost in the growing grayness of the misty distance-just like the roads of Devonshire. Indeed, in parts, the country we passed through distinctly reminded us of Devonshire; it was as far removed from the popular conception of Lincolnshire scenery as a Dutch landscape is from a Derbyshire one. Indeed, a cyclist whom we met that evening at Horncastle declared indignantly to us that he considered Lincolnshire "a fraud"; he had been induced to tour therein under the impression that the roads were "all beautifully level and good going." He had just ridden over the Wolds that day, he explained, hence his disparaging remarks-and he was very angry! Journeying on we presently reached the lonely, picturesque, and prettily-named village of Mavis Enderby. Its ancient church, a field's space away from the road, looked interesting with its hoary walls, gray stone churchyard cross, and little sun-dial. In the porch we noted a holy-water stoup supported on four small clustered pillars; the interior of the building we did not see, for the door was locked and we felt too lazy to go and hunt for the key. The top of the cross is adorned with a carving of the Crucifixion on one side, and of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Saviour on the other. The shaft for about half its extent upwards is manifestly ancient, the rest, including of course the sculpturings, is as manifestly modern, though not of yesterday, for the latter portion already shows slight signs of weathering, and has become time-mellowed and lichen-clad. The figures at the top are effectively but roughly carved in faithful imitation of medieval work of the same class. So faithful in fact and spirit indeed is the copy that there is no small danger of antiquaries in the years to come being deceived, and pronouncing the cross to be a rare and well-preserved specimen of fifteenth-century work. Apropos of this carefully studied copying of ancient work it may not be uninteresting to quote here from a letter of Lord Grimthorpe upon the restoration of St. Albans Abbey which he carried out. "It took no small trouble to get them (new stones inserted in the work) worked as roughly as the old ones, so as to make the work homogeneous, and to bewilder antiquaries who pretend to be able to distinguish new work from old; which indeed architects generally make very easy for them." As we were about leaving we observed an intelligent-looking man leisurely walking on the road, the only living person we had seen in the village by A MODERN PURITAN 305 the way; we asked him if he knew anything about the cross, who restored it, and when? We were not prepared for the outburst that followed this innocent query. "That popish thing," he exclaimed. savagely and contemptuously, "we want another Cromwell, that's about what's the matter, and the sooner he comes the better. I'm a Protestant, and my forefathers were Protestants afore me. Now it's bad enough to have popery inside a church, as has crept in of late years,―lights, incense, vestments, banners, processions; but to boldly bring their cursed popery outside, well--" and he could find no words strong enough to express his detestation of such proceedings, but he looked unutterable things. "I just feel as how I'd like to swear," he exclaimed, "only it's wicked." We sympathised with him, and tried to calm his injured feelings. We prided ourselves on our successful diplomacy; we said, "Now, if Cromwell were only here he would soon have that cross down." This in no way compromised us, but it served somewhat to soothe the stranger's anger. Ay! that's true," responded he, and regardless of grammar went on, "mighty quick too, he'd mighty soon clear the country of all the popish nonsense. Why, in my young days, we used to have parsons, now we've got priests." He then paused to light his pipe, at which he drew furiously-our question never got answered after all, but, under the circumstances, we thought perhaps it would be well not to repeat it, we did not want a religious declamation— we were pleasure-touring! The lighting of the pipe broke the thread of the discourse for the moment, |