strange relic of other days and ways, in the shape of a brass collar by which poor unfortunate lunatics were chained to a wall. Where the collar has gone no one seems to know or care; however, it has disappeared, to the grief of antiquaries. "Though I cannot show you the collar, I can still show you something curious and interesting," said our friend. Whereupon he went into the churchyard, and after some searching plucked a thistle; this did not seem anything wonderful to us, not being botanists, but he pointed out to us that it was peculiarly marked with unusual gray lines all over. This, we were informed, is called the "Holy Thistle," or "Mary's Thistle," and it used to be grown by the monks at Kirkstead Abbey a few miles away, and even until a few years ago specimens thereof might have been found in the fields that now surround the abbey ruins, but the farmers had rooted them all up. Arthur Thistlewood of the Cato Street conspiracy was born here at Horsington, we learnt, his real name being Burnet. The birthplace of still another famous man had we come across!

Next we drove on to Halstead Hall, an ancient building set back some way from the road, showing signs of its former importance, but now, like so many other ancient halls, converted into a pleasant farmstead. The hall was moated, but the moat has been drained dry; the house is famous locally for a daring and a remarkable robbery committed there in 1829, an event that still affords subject for the country folk to talk and enlarge about, at least we heard a good deal about it. The house, we under

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stood, was broken into by a band of robbers who tied up the men-servants in a stable, first gagging them; and then locked up the family and the maids in a store-room. After this they sat down in the hall and feasted; the repast over, they leisurely collected all the silver plate and money they could find, and quietly departed. Three of the band were afterwards captured and hanged at Lincoln; one of them, a certain Timothy Brammer, when on the scaffold, kicked off his shoes, as he declared, to falsify the prophecy of his friends that "he would die in his shoes"; the doing of this appeared to afford him a grim sort of satisfaction. Then by the hamlet of Stixwold we returned to Woodhall Spa after a very interesting "antiquarian day."

We left Woodhall Spa regretfully, and upon mounting our dogcart to resume our tour the genial landlord of the Royal Hotel and most of the guests thereof, whose acquaintance we had made during our too short stay, came to the door to bid us goodbye and a prosperous journey,—yet we had only arrived there a few days before, perfect strangers in the land! Truly we had paid our modest bill, notwithstanding which we left in debt to the landlord for all his kindness to us, for which no charge. was made!

It was a cloudy day; the barometer was falling; the wind blew wild and warm from the west. 'You'll have rain, and plenty of it," prophesied one of the party; "better stay on till to-morrow." The temptation was great, but if we dallied thus on the way at every pleasant spot we should hardly get

home before the winter, so we hardened our hearts and drove away. The rain did not actually come down, but we noticed great banks of threatening gray storm-clouds in serried ranks gathered on the low horizon that foreboded ill, with an advance guard of vast detached masses of aqueous vapours, windwoven into fantastic forms. The sky-scape at any rate was interesting. "It looks stormy," exclaimed we, to a man, in response to a polite "Good-morning" he bade us as we passed him by. "It do look so," replied he, "but we won't get any wet worth speaking of whilst this wind keeps up." This was reassuring. We have generally found country folk more reliable about the immediate future of the weather than the falling or rising of the barometer, for local conditions are often an important factor in the case and modify the barometer's forecast.

About a mile on our way we noticed the slight remains of the once famous and wealthy Cistercian Abbey of Kirkstead. These consist simply of a tall fragment of the transept and some walling, standing alone in the midst of a wide grass field. Beyond this, in an adjoining meadow, we espied a most beautiful little Early English chapel, perfectly pure in style. This was enclosed in a neglected-looking graveyard, the rusty gates of which were carefully locked, so that we were, perforce, obliged to climb over them to inspect the building, which was also carefully locked up, and, I regret to add, very fast going to irretrievable decay for the want of a little timely repair. Why, I wonder, is such a rare architectural gem as this allowed to go thus the

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way of all uncared-for things? Is there not a "Society for the Preservation of Ancient Buildings" of interest? Can it do nothing to preserve for us this relic of former days?

At first sight it appears curious to find such a beautiful chapel in such close proximity to a lordly abbey; manifestly, however, the building was a chantry chapel, presumably for the benefit of the soul of the second Lord of Tattershall, as his armoured effigy is still within the desolated chapel, which was, doubtless, erected near to the abbey for the convenience and certainty of priestly service.

As we drove on, shortly the tall tower of Tattershall Castle stood forth ahead of us, showing darkly gray against the stormy sky, a striking object in the level landscape, powerfully asserting itself on the near horizon, some three or four miles by winding road away, though possibly a good mile less "as the crow flies." Soon we came to the little river Bain, which we crossed on a rather creaky wooden bridge -the scenery about the river here is very pretty and most paintable-and found ourselves in Coningsby, a remote Lincolnshire village, whose name, however, has become well known from its having provided Lord Beaconsfield with the title for his famous novel. Coningsby possesses a fine old church, with a somewhat disappointing interior. We noticed in the porch here a large holy-water stoup, opening both internally and externally; above the porch is a parvise chamber of the usual type. Within the church, at the top of a pillar of the north aisle, is a carving of a "scold" gagged, just one of those

subjects that delighted the humour of the medieval sculptor to portray.

Then another mile brought us to Tattershall, a small hamlet dominated and dwarfed by its truly magnificent church (more like a cathedral than a village fane, and of a size out of all proportion to the present, possibly also the past, needs of the parish) and by its stately old castle, towering high above all around. The church we found open, but desolate within, it being given over to workmen for muchneeded repairs; the pavement in places, we noticed, was fouled by birds and wet with recent rain that had come in through holes in the roof. It was a pathetic sight to behold the grand old church in its faded magnificence, bare, cold, and colourless, robbed long ago of its glorious stained-glass windows, that once made it the pride of the whole countryside. Strange it seems that these splendid windows, that had miraculously escaped the Puritan crusade, should have been allowed to be carted away only the last century (in 1757) to enrich another church! Truly the Puritans were not the only spoilers. Here in the north transept is preserved a series of exceedingly fine and very interesting, though mutilated and damaged, brasses, removed from their rightful place in the chancel pavement some years ago, and now huddled together in a meaningless way. One of these is of Lord-Treasurer Cromwell, the builder of Tattershall church and castle. Another very fine. brass is that of a provost with a richly-adorned cope. These brasses will well repay careful study.

Of Tattershall, besides some insignificant and