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

In lands where not a memory strays,

Nor landmark breathes of other days,

But all is new unhallow'd ground.

We now turned to inspect the ancient and erst moated grange that stands just beyond the rectory, the gardens of the two houses indeed adjoin. This charming and quaint old home was naturally well known to Tennyson, and within its time-honoured

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walls he and his brothers, we learn, used to indulge their boyish pranks. It is reputed to have been designed by Sir J. Vanbrugh; a substantial, imposing-looking building it is of brick, and suggests a massiveness not often obtained in that material. The parapet that runs along the top is embattled, a great doorway finds a place in the centre of the front facing the road, the windows are heavy and round topped, and at each corner of the house is a square little tower that slightly projects. Though it does not wholly answer to either description, it used to be believed by many people to be the original of "The Moated Grange," and by others that of "Locksley Hall." Now that we know that the poet himself has declared such fond suppositions to be fallacies, the matter is settled for ever.

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

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

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

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small arched recesses in the wall, in which, we understood, food for prisoners was supposed to be placed. They certainly would have made desirable dungeons, according to medieval ideas. And we were further informed that certain antiquaries who had inspected the cellars expressed their belief that they had been built for dungeons; possibly the antiquaries in question were right. I always have a great respect for the dictum of learned men, but in this instance, in spite of the unknown authorities, and much as I dislike to differ from well-established tradition, I still strongly incline to the opinion that these underground places were simply intended for cellars.

Dungeons" sounds more romantic truly, but why should such a house be provided with dungeons? Besides, granted they were dungeons, then the difficult question arises, "Where were the cellars?" For such a house, though it might not need dungeons, would certainly require cellars, and bearing in mind its date, a generous allowance thereof!

We were told also that there is a tradition, handed down with the house, according to which there is a long secret subterranean passage leading from one of these cellars to some spot without; but I have heard so many similar stories before of so many other places, that with respect to all such mysterious passages I can only say, "Seeing's believing." The Grange is a substantial building; its walls being three feet thick make it delightfully cool in summer and as delightfully warm in winter. The dweller in the modern villa, mis-termed "desirable" by its owner, knows nothing of the luxury of

such thick walls, nor the saving in coal bills entailed thereby. Somersby Grange is a house to entice the modern speculative builder into, and having done so to point out to him the solid substance thereof as an example of the liberal use of material over and above that nicely calculated as the minimum required to outlast a ground lease. Then possibly the speculative builder would justly reply that to build houses like that to sell would mean the bankruptcy court. These old houses were built for homes, not for one generation, but for many. I am afraid that the changed conditions of life, owing mainly to the cheap communication and rapid transit provided by railways, have caused home building to become almost a lost art. Why, instead of a family living for generations in one place, it is a matter of surprise if they stay more therein than a few years; three appears to be a very general and favourite term!

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