152 



From Scrooby I walked to Austerfleld, arid, very like, by the same 

 bye-paths that young Bradford trod when he stole over to Scrooby to 

 worship with his co-religionists at the manor. The old church of 

 Austerfield is very small, not calculated to hold more than from one 

 hundred to one hundred and fifty people, but yet its walls are three 

 feet thick. It has stood for many centuries, and for anything I saw 

 it may stand for many more. As I gazed at its massive construction 

 I could not help thinking, " truly the men of Austerfleld built for 

 posterity;" and young Bradford catching the inspiration of his native 

 village laid his foundations broad and deep in another hemisphere, 

 and in a more magnificent manner, built for posterity. I should 

 think, from appearances, that the village of Austerfield was much the 

 same as when Bradford left it. The register of his baptism is in the 

 keeping of the clergyman who resides at Bawtry. One item ol 

 interest I gathered from the parish clerk, an old man. One of the 

 bells in the tiny tower of the church, was the veritable bell the 

 Curfew that tolled out the harsh tones of the Norman conquests. 

 Here ended my first pilgrimage. 



The result was the discovery of a portion of the manor of Scrooby 

 the cradle of the Anglo-Norman* Republic the precious spot 

 where the infant Giant of the West drew its first struggling breath. 



On the 4th day of the present month, October, 1869, I sat out on 

 my second pilgrimage to Scrooby and Austerfield. It was a fine 

 autumnal day a day of the English Indian summer called by 

 Shakspearc, "St. Martin's little summer." The phenomenon of a 

 few fine days a sort of blessing added to the summer is common, 

 I am inclined to believe, all over the northern hemisphere. As a 

 farmer by profession and practice I regard it as a kind provision of 

 nature, enabling the husbandman to prepare his land and sow his 

 seed wheat for the next year's harvest. On the present occasion, I 

 took my own conveyance and a man to drive me. Before I reached 

 the village of Scrooby, the well known spire of the old church pre- 

 sented itself. On alighting at the church I found all right outwardly 

 just as the pilgrim fathers left it -but within a great change had 

 taken place. About five years ago the body of the church was com- 

 pletely renovated, and reseated. It was no longer the church that 

 the pilgrims knew, but the people of the present day have a more 

 commodious place of worship, .and that circumstance stifles all re- 

 grets. Among the many changes that nineteen years has brought 

 about none was so great as the intense interest that had sprung 

 up in the interval. Scrooby Church had become the Mecca of New 

 England people. On nra^ first visit I only found one individual that 

 was at all aware of the'-^merican interest attached to Scrooby, and 

 that individual was Lord Galway, whom I accidentally met at Bawtry 

 station. Now all this apparent indifference is changed. Mine host 

 at the Bawtry hotel, his men in the stable, parish clerk and sexton, 

 all that I met were alive to the American interest that had -gathered 

 round Scrooby and Austerfield. Some of the people told me that the 

 Americans would have restored Scrooby Church if the parishioners 

 would have allowed a simple restoration. During the time of its 

 actual repair many Americans visited the spot and bought up frag- 

 ments of the old church. One rejected door stone and the old font 



* I prefer to write Anglo-Norman, because I think it is the Norman element of our 

 population that migrates and stirs new regions with its restless activity. 



