LIVING LINCOLN

There is no one about, at least no one knows you, to distract attention. Those who are out are hurrying to work, and the Castle-square is uninhabited, except for the pigeons. Very bold they are too — you can nearly pick them up. A man at the corner was feeding them this morning whilst a little girl tried to ring a bell, and he told me they belong to the Bishop, “or at least they sleep there. We feed them,” he added, quite unnecessarily, taking the bell from the child, who could hardly raise it, and bringing, with a few sharp stokes, a cloud of wings about his head. They all seem of one colour — I don’t know if it is natural selection working protectively, for their dull-grey bodies are almost invisible against stone walls and cobbles of the Square.

Pondering the question I passed through the archway, coming into the warm sunlight to take a fore-shortened squint at the west front of the Cathedral. We mustn’t be vandals, of course, but if that arch would fall down, what a view there would be from the Square! If only the Suffragettes would be useful now... But it would be built again even higher!

The houses around (the Close I believe) looked more secluded and forbidding than ever. Their fronts hold aloof, and they seem discreet and proper and long dead, except where a yellow curtain peered forth like a primrose. Do these Cathedral dwellings take their looks from their inhabitants, or is it the other way round? Probably the former, I thought, and could picture myself as most reserved if I lived here. With a sniff of disdain I went along to the left. Yet — who knows — perhaps I wrong them. Maybe they have gardens behind, with fruit trees on old stone walls, and cats asleep on jolly lawns.

“This is a curious thing,” said I, and striding over the double one, I passed along, counting them as I walked, to find myself bearing towards the left hand, until at last I came to stand right on the pavement, where, sunk in the stone slab, were three, all interwoven. This was surely the climax! I looked, and, lo, a baker’s shop! The last signs were at his doorstep, and all was clear. It was an advertisement in stone — an early English joke (heavy, of course), a trail leading straight to business...

But why should they cease where they did, at the beginning of the trail? If they ran to the Castle Square, now, one could understand; but they didn’t, and I could see no light unless they originally led past a rival bake-house to keep people on the right path... In I went, to find out what could be learned of this enterprising Saxon advertisement. “What is the meaning of these millstones, down the road?” I asked, pointing through the open door.

“Millstones? Oh, yes. Those are the stones marking the foundations of the pillars at the entrance to the Roman Baths,” said he, leaning over the counter. ‘They curve away here; and when we rebuilt a wall, behind the house, we discovered others.”

He gave me a number of details, being a kindly soul and one evidently interested in the matter; indeed he made me ashamed of the slighting way that I thought of the Romans... The Saxons, after all were a reactionary gang and left no monuments behind. Even Stonehenge is British. But, on the other hand, they left their fierce spirit — or did they? Is there anything of it left? I wonder.

The Roman Baths must have been a considerable affair!

I climbed the stairway — a hundred and sixty-nine steps there were, winding round and round until the tank was reached. It’s something like a tank, too! No wonder the walls are massive! But I soon tired of peering into it, because after its magnitude has amazed you, it is no more of a spectacle than a water butt at home; so up I went on to the roof to feast upon the view...

After descending I walked around the grounds with the Engineer. “Shall you stand a dry summer?” I asked. ‘Oh yes,” said he. ‘We can do it without bothering ourselves. Yesterday was a record day — they used over a million and a half gallons!” I didn’t wonder at that, because the day itself had seemed to me a record one. The sight of the swimming bath, was peculiarly grateful in the heat, and I shall look forward this summer to pleasant plunges before breakfast. The whole of the grounds are well laid out, and I take my hat off to those who have undertaken the task.

The tower is a symbol of more than water. It challenges the Castle and Cathedral in more ways than one; for it is a token of the new spirit. We still build Castles, or what is the modern equivalent in Dreadnoughts, and occasionally we achieve a new Minster, but our faith is in the future instead of the past.

It isn’t all faith and hope, however. We can no longer, in cities, play hazard with our share. Lincoln has had a sharp lesson, and her wounds are hardly healed. It is well that these pipes should bear the fountain of life to our lips instead of a darker cup, which they offered in that terrible time. Long may the guardians of Lincoln stand as securely as this tower.

I stopped one morning to watch some men at work upon a row of cottages and seeing a door ajar in a hoarding, peeped through to discover — the Castle Moat... Before any houses were built at all — either cottages to the north and west, or mansions to the south and east — the Castle must have been a splendid spectacle, for its mound is high, its banks are steep, and the walls commanding.

The week following my discovery, a controversy began in the Press about these cottages, cries of “Vandal;” being raised in more than one London paper, until some citizen pointed out that Lincoln was full of remains... It would not be the first time that this has happened, for after William the Conqueror came to Lincoln to inspect the defences of his kingdom a clearance was made of numerous buildings which had been erected upon or within the encircling mounds and moat. Domesday book says that 166 dwellings were thus destroyed on account of the Castle. That must have been something of a clearance!

The whole Castle might well be haunted, for its history is one of bloodshed and cruelty, of attack and defence, of great slaughter, of beatings, hangings, and imprisonments; and enough blood has been shed in and around its walls since the Romans raised them, to fill its moat many times over. Perhaps these times are past, possibly they may never return, and when the obnoxious brick building is cleared away, when the grounds are laid out as ornamental walks, and more great trees have spread their arms; when on summer evenings the citizens of Lincoln walk about and admire the sunset, they may even persuade themselves that such things never happened. But the gaol must be cleared away first.

If the stars are the attraction of the countryside, the lights of a city are equally fascinating. I often walk along the Carline Road on a clear night and watch the twinkling points, dotted here and there, flinging themselves into a line where a road runs, or paling before a blast furnace.

I wonder what Lincoln was like when there were no lights. Until quite recently there must have been only feeble oil lamps in the main streets, and all the winding alleys, all the dark waterside haunts, which are crooked and sinister enough now, must have been really dangerous. There are spots in Lincoln that would lend themselves to dark deeds. I suppose respectable folks stayed indoors after sunset.

That’s the point of course! Until cheap lighting became practicable there was little difference between town and country; by night, at any rate. This cheap light makes the city what it is. It will go ahead, I fancy, and in a generation or so, every path and lane in Lincoln will be as brilliant as the High Street is now.

But there will still be nooks for lovers, and if not the fields around will still abound with couples... Sometimes after eleven I see women staggering towards the slums in the “Draperies,” or coaxing home a quarrelsome or comatose husband. Then I wish there were no street lights, as I hurry past. But it is as well that I should be troubled, and well that I should trouble others, if I can. We are all responsible.

As I walk up Spring Hill I often think I can hear the great animal — the corporate Lincoln — breathing in its sleep. May it continue to slumber peacefully, undisturbed by earthquakes, burglers, or Germans, and awake refreshed again, each morning.

The streets are ablaze with light and liveliness, they throb with interest, for the people are out, the real people: the great army of Lincoln, taking their leisure and enjoying itself in a myriad ways. It is impossible to describe this crowd in detail. I have tried several times, but the impression is all blurred; it is only a moving picture, a memory of innumerable girls and men and boys, with an odd policeman or soldier at intervals. A few faces just out for a second, but no longer...

One of my favourite pastimes, when I first came to Lincoln, was to stand by a chestnut-barrow against the Stonebow between nine and ten at night, and watch the people. There is no better point of vantage on a winter’s night if you have a warm coat, for you are cheered by the glowing cinders and by the fragrance of the roasting nuts...

My particular chestnut man is not very old, but he has travelled and read considerably and knows everyone in Lincoln...

“Do you keep at this trade all year round!”

“Not likely. They’re nearly done now.”

“Done? Why?”

“The spring’s coming and the chestnuts know it.”

“How’s that?”

“I can’t tell you; nobody can; but the nuts know fast enough. They’re hidden in a sack in a cellar, but in a week or two the sap will begin to stir and they’ll be no good for eating”.

A few nights later the stall had vanished. Its owner had retired into the recesses of the city, but the other day I met him again, trundling an ice-cream barrow. Perhaps he is drawn towards barrows, and no other calling appeals to him. “A life that lends itself to meditation,” I mused, thinking that I would like it myself, if I were driven to manual labour; (although writing is nothing else, and very hard labour too, sometimes) but perhaps it isn’t as jolly as it seems.

Lincoln should be proud of its Public Library, and any citizen who has not been inside should go at once. As a building it is worthy, in my opinion to rank with the older monuments. I have no knowledge of architecture, and can only say if I am pleased or not, mainly in ignorance of how the effect is produced. Some Lincoln buildings cause me great pain, but certainly the Library gives satisfaction...

In the Reference Room sit students with beetling brows, or old gaffers bent on some crank, but it is never full like the Reading Room opposite, where the really interesting people are to be found, and where the comedy of life goes on unceasingly. There is the witty one who hides “Punch” under the cover of his “Sketch,” the persistent one who insists on having it out, and the decided fellow who seizes the “Graphic” and settles down for an hour; indifferent to the hungry eyes all agog for him to stop.

Here is the girl wading down the “Daily Telegraph” for a situation. I always wonder why she is so anxious to change, and I long to ask her, but no talking is allowed; so I turn to watch a schoolboy bolting “Chums;” (how I greedily I once bolted “Chums!”) At the Ladies’ table is much pondering of fashion in papers whose names I never gather. I looked through several of them once, but could find nothing but advertisement. And such advertisements!

Last, but not least, comes the Lending Library. What delighted me here was the system of free access to its books. You no longer have to wander blankly through catalogues, but walk around the shelves and choose for yourself. This of course transforms the whole business. It is not only that it is more convenient, and quicker, and a saving of labour, but that it is an entirely different affair. The rows of books over-shadow you like trees of Wisdom in the Forest of Time.

Last Fair-Saturday night I went down in my old clothes, and after half-an-hour’s hard fight, reached the centre of the show ground. Like a drowning man seizing a spar, I clung to a roundabout, and presently hoisted myself up on to its steps into comparative safety. It was a point where three avenues met, and, standing there with one arm braced round the pillar, I surveyed the scene. It was worth seeing! The crowd, like cattle, were jammed hopelessly together; they swarmed in every direction at once like ants. I watched four fellows, whom I knew, aiming up the hill. They went in single file, their arms round each others’ waists (and were stout lads too), but for a long time they made no headway at all, and once, they were swept far aside from their line. Finally I lost them. There seemed to be a hundred organs all roaring together down my neck, drums were banging, bells clanging, and at intervals a steam hooter blew off. It was the apotheosis of uproar.

There was no chance of getting into the side shows, or at least no chance of coming out in one’s original shape, so I contented myself with an occasional ride, wondering what the “Nautch Girls” or the “Fat Lady” were like. Several times I caught the eye of respectable citizens enjoying the fun of the fair, and all of them explained that they were only “looking on.” There must be more physical enjoyment, more actual fun and jollity here than anywhere else in Lincoln at any time. It is idle to estimate numbers, but there was a colossal multitude in and around the ground that night. But everything must be paid for by someone, and those who live near the Fair Ground seem to pay in this instance. Fancy hearing these noises all day and all night, just round the corner! I would rather live on the lower slopes of Vesuvius.

As I walked along the Waterside from the High Street, the water looked oily and stagnant between its stone walls; more like a canal than a river. Every other building seems to be a lodging house, catering for the hundreds of “travellers,” who make this quarter their temporary abode. Each house has something to offer, “Good accommodation for couples” “Good beds for Single Men,” or “Comfortable Lodgings” meet you at every other step, whilst the smaller ones content themselves with a notice written on a piece of cardboard in the window...

And the shops! In one I saw, all together, and all touching, spring onions, oranges, herrings, bars of chocolate, soap, and radishes. You can buy shirts at 4d each, hats for 3d, and patched-up boots at rock-bottom prices... Everything is at the last ebb of cheapness, and is valued not in shillings, but in coppers. The very fish in the shops seem disgusted at their price, and offer up their share to the pervading odour.

It you have old clothes on, you can enter one of these Waterside lodging-houses. You go through a narrow passage and a low doorway to find yourself in a kitchen — a long, low, whitewashed room, in which burns a considerable fire, flanked by kettles of boiling water. The furniture is confined to forms and tables, with a few pictures from the “Mirror of Life” or ‘Police News,” and a couple of gas jets aflare light up the company. But the smell!... Above, are the sleeping apartments for single or married couples. In the former, a long room holds a score of beds, all neat (Lincoln lodging houses are well inspected) and in the latter the couples sleep in tiny cubicles...

You could easily fancy yourself in ancient Lincoln, and I should think that, all things considered, no part of the city has changed less in four or five hundred years. As you emerge into the High Street again you draw a deep breath.

What, afterall, is the real difference between town and country life? There can be no hesitation as to the answer. It is the city streets that mark the difference, the life that pulses down these conduits, the human tide passing down these arteries: visible token of sixty thousand people.

To the lover of wild life, of growing things, of birds, trees, and open spaces, the country comes first; to those who desire peace and meditation the village and the open fields with their clouds, their solitude and infinite peacefulness, must come before the city; but to one who desires companionship, and who loves humanity, there can be no comparison. For human nature you must go to the town.

There is always something doing in these streets if you only look. It is, of course, the quality of the looking that counts; the matter of eyes or no-eyes that makes all the difference; for if you have the gift of sight you need never be dull. There is a never-ending show before you, and at every street corner, drama, and tragedy unfold themselves as you pass.

Of course there are degrees, for Lincoln is only just a city. Yesterday it was a small country town... One could soon exhaust its possibilities as against London, whose shops are always fascinating, and whose streets are ever changing, but still, this heap of sixty thousand people affords a sufficiency for the observer. No one ought to be dull in Lincoln.

Streets should be alive and smiling and full of jolly people. A time may come when the crowd palls upon me, when I feel that I must have peace, and I know then that I am old. At present I would not leave them. They are alive, to be busy, to be pleasant, and whilst they remain, may I be there to see.