Records of Woodhall Spa and Neighbourhood Part 19

This is hardly the place to moralise, nor have we s.p.a.ce to do so to more than a very limited extent; yet two reflections seem to force themselves upon us as the result of the archaeological enquiries which have produced the last three chapters of this work. One of these is the evil consequences of a barren formalism in religion. The monkish perfunctory services, with their "vain repet.i.tions" and "long players," reduced the individual well-nigh to the level of a praying machine, which could run off, as it were, from the reel, so many litanies in a given time, with little effort of intellect, and only a blind exercise of faith; both fatal to religious vitality. The dissolution of the monasteries, which were, perhaps, more abundant in our own neighbourhood than in any other similarly limited area in the kingdom, is not only a fact in history, but also may be an object-lesson in a different age. At the close of the enlightened 19th century we witnessed a church-may I not almost say, a nation?-convulsed over questions of religious ceremonial, which, to minds endeavouring to take a sober and unbia.s.sed view, seem bordering on the puerile, compared with the weightier matter of the religion of heart and life. We can hardly help exclaiming, "Oh, that practical Englishmen would spend their energies on larger issues rather than thus give a handle to their enemies!" There is such a thing as "having the form of G.o.dliness without the indwelling power thereof." From such let us turn away, or history may, even yet, repeat itself.

There can be no doubt that the plunder of the monasteries was primarily, though not avowedly, caused by the greed of a master mind, in Wolsey-whose extravagance needed "the sinews of war," acting upon a desire for revenge, deeply seated in the heart of a Sovereign, self-convicted we may well believe, but stubbornly clinging to his sin; whose unjustifiable act, in the divorce of Catherine of Aragon, outraged the national sense of right, but especially was condemned by the religious orders. Yet, none the less, though brought about by unworthy motives, and the result, as it were, of side issues, the destruction of those inst.i.tutions, with all their virtues and their manifold usefulness, coincided with a condition of things, widely prevalent, which rendered them only "fit for the burning." They had, indeed, served their generation, and more than one, but they had become "carrion" in the nostrils, and, "where the carcase" was, "the vultures" of retribution, almost in the natural order of events, were "gathered together."

A second reflection tends in an opposite direction.

A reactionary sentiment of our day is to make an idol of the great figure-head of Puritanism. We had lately (April 25, 1899) a celebration of the Tercentenary of Cromwell; in the place of his birth he has been made use of (by a strange stroke of irony) as an apostle of education.

Projects are on foot for erecting his statue in positions of honour. Yet we see still in our own neighbourhood, as well as elsewhere, traces of the almost universal desecration of our holy places perpetrated by the fanaticism which he fostered and guided. Was Henry VIII. an Iconoclast, in shattering the monasteries? No less was the crime of Puritanism in dismantling our churches and stripping them of treasures which were beyond price. The antiquarian Carter says, "Before the hand of destruction wrought such fatal devastation, every sacred edifice throughout England, whether of confined or extended dimensions, teemed with a full and resplendent show of painted gla.s.s, all equally excellent, all equally meritorious" (Remarks on York Minster, Winkle's "Cathedrals,"

vol. i., p. 54, n. 30). In confirmation of this I take two instances: Four miles away we have the fine Church of Coningsby, and we have in these pages (pp. 222226) a detailed description of the splendid series of coloured windows which formerly adorned that church. We ask, "Where are they now?" and echo can only reiterate "Where?" But for Gervase Holles, a Lincolnshire man and formerly M.P. for Grimsby, we should not now know that they ever existed. We take another case, one of the humblest structures in our neighbourhood, the church of Langton, and we have records given by the same authority of windows once existing here whose blazonry connected it with the ancient families of Everingham, de Seyrt, Skipwith, Bec, Ufford, and Willoughby. Where are they now? The wave of Puritanism has swept away every trace of them. Somersby indeed retains its churchyard cross, almost an isolated instance. The Puritan axe and hammer missed it, no thanks to them. The beautifully-carved fragments of destroyed monasteries, preserved perhaps as relics on our garden rockeries warn us of the dangers of mere formalism in religion.

The Puritan spoliation of our holy places warns us against fanaticism and irreverence. Turn neither to the right hand nor to the left. In medio tutissimus ibis. We may well "hark back" to the devotion of our forefathers, but from either extreme, Domine, dirige nos.

And now there only remains the duty, or, rather, the privilege, of saying one parting word more. A Preface may be called a pre-post-erous production, because, though standing at the head of a book, it is almost invariably written after the book is finished, and when the author can take a general review of his work. In the present instance this was impossible. The exigencies of the situation-these Records first appearing as a weekly series in "The Horncastle News"-required that the Introduction, to stand at their head, should be written when the work itself was yet only an embryo conceived in the writer's brain. He may truly be said to have begun _ab ovo_. He knew, indeed, generally, his own intentions, but he could not possibly, as yet, tell the exact form in which they would be embodied, and, as an unavoidable consequence, in the present case, as in not a few others, what should naturally be the head is here found where the tail should be. The real Preface closes, instead of introducing, the writer's work to his readers.

A general outline, indeed, of the work had been laid down on paper more than a dozen years ago. During that interval (as also for several years before it) the materials had been acc.u.mulating; but still, when the work actually began to take shape, the writer was standing, as it were, at one end of a coil, of which he could not see the other; the windla.s.s was letting down a chain into depths which his eye could not penetrate, nor his knowledge yet reach.

The outline originally sketched out has really in one only particular been departed from, but, in the process of its evolution, the thread has considerably stretched. The Clotho of its destiny has spun a longer web than had been foreseen by the writer. On coming to closer quarters with his subject, materials multiplied beyond his expectations, and but for the pruning knife, the result would have been still larger than it is.

How much the author is indebted to the previous industry of others is shewn by the number of the footnotes, and other references in the text, which together amount to close upon five hundred. Others have laboured and he has entered into their labours, and his object, in this, as it were, post-prandial utterance, is to own, with grat.i.tude, the varied viands-epulae lautissimae-which he has found spread before him. He would say, with Cicero, opipare epulati sumus; and yet there are many baskets of fragments left.

He would also here express his thanks for the unvaried kindness with which his personal visits, in search of local information, have been welcomed; for the helpful response always made to his enquiries; as well as for the sympathy shewn towards his undertaking. But for these the work could not have attained its present dimensions, nor could much of its most interesting matter have been obtained; while, further they have made the work a task of real pleasure to himself. He can only say, in conclusion that if others should find, in the perusal of these pages, even a t.i.the of the entertainment which he has himself found in the compilation of them, he will be more than satisfied-gratified-by the result.

A GLOSSARY OF LINCOLNSHIRE WORDS & PHASES.

_Argufy_. To matter, be of importance. "It does not argufy at all,"

_i.e._ "It does not signify," or "It makes no difference."

_Bab_. A sort of dredge, with hooks below it, to clear out fen drains of the weeds.

_Bage_. A paring of turf formerly used for fuel.

_Bandy-ball_. The game of hockey, also called shinty or shindy.

_Banker_. A navvy employed in digging or repairing fen drains.

_Bat_. A small bundle of straw or gra.s.s.

_Battle-twig_. An earwig.

_Baulk_. Hiccough.

_Bealto_. To squeal, or bawl, used of a child screaming.

_Beastlings_. The first milk drawn from a cow after calving, which is specially rich.

_Beck_. A brook. Reed's beck, Odd's beck.

_Bested_. Beaten. "He will best you," _i.e._ get the better of you.

_Bevering-time_. Luncheon time. Compare "Beverage."

_Blowns_. Exclamation of surprise. Compare "Zounds," (supposed to be a contraction of "G.o.d's wounds.") Blowns probably a contraction of "blood and wounds," _i.e._ of Christ.

_Boon_, _to_. To repair the roads. The road surveyor was called the boon master.

_Bran in the face_. Freckles.

_Brat_. A child. Term of contempt, "Take that tiresome brat away."

_Breed_. Each separate line of walk when a party is shooting through a wood.

_Breer_. The strip of gra.s.s between a ditch, and the ploughed land of a field. 3d. per chain was paid for cleaning out a ditch and mowing the breer.

_Brock_. Sheep dung dried to be used as fuel.

_Brog_. To pierce holes with a stick, &c. "Brog him in the ribs,"

_i.e._ poke him.

_Bub_ or _bubbling_. A young bird, a fledgling.

_Bule-ding_. The common p.r.o.nunciation of "building."

_Bully_. The sloe, wild fruit of the black thorn. Bullace cheese is made from it.

_By-name_. A nick-name. Compare by-word _i.e._ ill-repute.

_Causey_. Causeway. Commonly used of the brick paved yard of a cottage.

_Cazzlety_. Fickle and uncertain in temper.

_Chickering_. Chirping of the cricket on the hearth, or of a chicken.

_Chittapag_. A woman fond of using fine words.

_Chuck_, _to_. To throw. Chuck-penny, to play at pitch and toss.

_Clagged_. Draggle-tailed with mud and dirt. Of an untidy woman.

_Clatty_. Dirty. Of roads after rain.

_Clegg_. Matted wool on hedges, &c.

_Clout_. A cloth, dish-cloth, &c.

_Clout_. A knock or blow, as "Fetch him a clout on the head."

_Connyfogled_. Cheated, outwitted.