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beam in full cry; the fox apparently just escaping into the thatched roof of the inn, the hounds immediately following, whilst the merry huntsmen bring up the rear. This very sporting sign shows well, being strongly silhouetted against the sky; it is full of spirit and movement, and has the charm of originality.

I have forgotten to say we were told that at the village of Ketton, in the near neighbourhood of Stamford, a gleaners' bell used to be rung in due season, as well as the curfew; before the first ringing of the former no one might glean in the fields, nor after the second ringing was any one allowed to continue their gleaning under the penalty of a fine, which went to the ringers. I trust I need not apologise for making note of these old customs, from time to time, as I come upon them. The church at Ketton is considered to be the most beautiful in the county; it has a central tower with a broach spire, and has been compared with St. Mary's at Stamford: the saying being that the latter "has the more dignity, but Ketton the greater grace."

Before resuming our journey I may note that in the heyday of the coaching age, I find from an old "Way Bill" that the time allowed for the mail-*coach from London to Stamford—89-1/4 miles—was 9 hours and 20 minutes, including changes.

Early next morning we set out from our ancient hostelry bound for Spalding, with the intention of visiting the once far-famed Fenland abbey of Crowland on the way, though from our map it appeared that the roads and the dykes were rather mixed up,