A VAIN SEARCH 339 with the stone effigy, in full armour, of Sir Iohn de Harrington, who is represented with his legs crossed; then passing through incised slabs and brasses to the more elaborate altar-tomb; and from this to the mural monument, where the figures are shown as kneeling, not recumbent; and lastly, to the period when the sculptured figures disappear altogether, and the portraits of the underlying dead give place to mere lettering setting forth the many virtues of the departed worthies. Harrington Hall is another of the places that people, in a vain search after the original of Locksley Hall, have imagined might have stood for the poet's picture, presumably because of its proximity to Somersby, for, as far as the building goes, it affords no clue that "one can catch hold of." It is an old hall, and there the likeness appears to begin and end! In spite of Tennyson's disclaimer, I cannot but feel that, though no particular spot suggested Locksley Hall to him, it is quite possible, if not probable, that he may, consciously or unconsciously, have taken a bit from one place, and a bit from another, and have pieced them together so as to form a whole-a vague whole truly, but still a tangible whole. To show how unknowingly such a thing may be done, I may mention that I once remember painting a mountain-and-river-scape that I fondly imagined I had evolved from my own brain. As I was at work on this an artist friend (with whom I had often painted in North Wales, our favourite sketching ground) chanced to look in for a smoke and a chat. "Hullo!" exclaimed he, "what have you got there? Why, it's Moel Siabod and the Llugwy, though I don't know the exact point of view." For the moment I deemed he was joking, as was his wont; but on looking again at the canvas with fresh eyes I saw that, quite unwittingly, I had repeated the general outline of that mountain, with even some details of the landscape of the valley below-not by any means an accurate representation of the scene, but sufficiently like to show how much I was unconsciously indebted to the original for my composition. I have still the painting by me, and on showing it to a friend well acquainted with the district, and after so far enlightening him as to say it was a Welsh view, he declared he knew the very spot I had painted it from! So powerful oftentimes are impressions; for it was solely a forgotten impression I had painted! Now, it happened that later on our journey we mentioned to a stranger (with whom we gossiped,. as we always do with interesting strangers we come across, if they will) the fact that so struck us about Harrington Church, its looking so new, whilst the tombs inside were so old. He exclaimed in reply, "Well, you see the old church was pulled down and entirely rebuilt. It was a pity, but it had to be. Its foundations had given way so that the building was slowly sinking into the ground." This remark brought to our mind one of the few possible clues of subject detail, as showing some distinct local colouring, for in "Locksley Hall Sixty Years After," we read : : COINCIDENCES Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into the ground, 341 Cross'd! for once he sail'd the sea to crush the Moslem in his pride; Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in which he died. There truly in Harrington Church is the warrior with his legs crossed, and Harrington is within an easy ramble of Somersby, so doubtless the old church, then possibly "sinking into the ground," with its tombs and ancient hall, were well known to Tennyson in his youth, and doubtless were lastingly impressed upon his romantic mind. It is just the spot that would impress any one of a poetic temperament even now, but more so then than now, when the church was in pathetic decay, broken down with the burden of centuries! It will not escape notice that Tennyson clings to the old tradition that a cross-legged effigy necessarily represents a crusader. Perhaps it is too much to expect a poet to do otherwise, in spite of the dictum of Dr. Cox (before mentioned) and that of other learned authorities who can find it in their hard hearts to destroy a pleasant bit of picturesque and purely harmless fiction. From Harrington we returned to Horncastle by a roundabout route, passing through South Ormsby and Tetford, a route that led us through the heart of the wild Wolds, and gave us a good insight into its varied and characteristic scenery. "A very enjoyable drive it proved, down dale and over hill, past many-tinted woods, gorgeous in their autumn colouring, through sleepy hamlets, and across one little ford, with a footbridge at the side for pedestrians, with the rounded hills bounding our prospect on every hand. Now the hills would be a wonderful purple-gray in cloud shadow, anon a brilliant golden green as the great gleams of sunshine raked their sloping sides, lighting them up with a warm glory that hardly seemed of this world, so ethereal did they make the solid landscape look. There is a charm of form, and there is also a charm of colour, less seldom looked for or understood; but when one can have the two at their best combined, as in this instance, then the beauty of a scene is a thing to be remembered, to make a mental painting of, to be recalled with a sense of refreshment on a dreary winter's day when the dark fog hangs thick and heavy like a pall over smoky London. P. G. Hamerton, who, if a poor painter, was an excellent critic, and a clever writer upon art (for, like Ruskin, he had a message to give), remarks, "In the Highlands of Scotland we have mountains, but no architecture; in Lincolnshire architecture, but no mountains." Well, I feel inclined to retort, Lincolnshire has the architecture-and the Wolds. Truly, the Wolds are not mountains, but picturesquely they will do as a background to architecture even better than mountains. Mountains resent being turned into a mere background to architecture; they are too big, too important, far too assertive; the Wolds are dreamy and distant,—so the very thing. Many years ago, when they were less known, and little thought of or admired, I spoke of the Norfolk Broads as a land of beauty, worthy of the PICTURESQUE LINCOLNSHIRE 343 attention of tourists and artists. I was smiled at for my pains. Now the painter revels in the Broads, and the tourist has discovered them. Today I say that Lincolnshire is a land of lovely landscapes, and that its scenery is most paintable and picturesque to those who have eyes to see, and this I have endeavoured to show in some of my sketches. Still I expect to be smiled at for the assertion. "Whoever heard of Lincolnshire being picturesque?" I can fancy people saying. The very remark was made to me when I proclaimed the beauty of the Broads. I bide my time, and wonder when artists will discover Lincolnshire. To be honest, however, I have heard of one artist who has discovered it, but he is very reticent about his "find." Wise man he! If a landscape painter feels he is getting "groovy," and I fear a good many are, let him come to Lincolnshire! Some centres in the county truly are better for his purpose than others, but I will not particularise. I dread even the remote chance of bringing down the cheap tripper. Once I innocently wrote, and in enthusiastic terms, of the charms of a certain beauty-spot that I thought was strangely overlooked and neglected. Well, I have cause to repent my rashness, and accept the well-intentioned hint thrown out to me by the Saturday Review some few years ago, thus: "Let Mr. Hissey ponder, and in his topography particularise less in the future. Our appeal, we know, places him in an awkward dilemma; but he can still go on the road and write his impressions without luring the speculative builder, etc. if he deals delicately with his favourite beauty |