Author: secretary

One lucky ‘Mercury’ reporter was invited to visit the site of the old paper mills at Wansford. There he discovered the fascinating history of the house and grounds, and paper making.

“Once Belonged | In Existence

To The ‘Mercury’ | Nearly 300 Years

Interesting Retrospective Glance

The days when the paper on which the ‘Mercury’ was printed was manufactured at Wansford, near Stamford, were recalled when, through the courtesy of Mr. G. Wyman Abbott, of Stibbington House, Wansford, a Mercury reporter was shown over the grounds of Stibbington House, the site of the old Paper Mills.

Stibbington House, which is even now occasionally referred to by old residents of Wansford as ‘The Paper Mills,’ was for over a century the property of the Newcomb family, a family which retained a controlling interest in the ‘Mercury’ for nearly 150 years. The paper was bought by one Richard Newcomb in 1785, but it was not until 1824 that he purchased the Paper Mills and used their product in Stamford.

Mr. Abbott was able to trace the ownership of the Mills as far back as 1650, when they were bought by William Page. Page married a lady by the name of Bridget, who had a daughter of the same name. He died in 1678, whereupon his widow re-married a man named Wright. The property then passed to a cousin, William Walcot, and then to William Walcot junior, of Oundle, a surgeon.

At this stage there is a gap in the records, the next known owner being the Richard Newcomb referred to abouve.

Sold Eleven Years Ago.

The Paper Mills remained in the Newcomb family until as recently as 1927, when Mrs. Todd-Newcomb sold the property to Mr. Abbott.

There is now little recognisable trace of the Mills, though, thanks to Mr. Abbott, I had little difficulty in re-constructing the scene of activity of a century or so ago.

There still remain standing a building which was the lower storey of the mill itself and a number of outbuildings which were probably used as drying rooms.

At the bottom of Mr. Abbott’s beautiul gardens runds an offshoot oft the River Nene and, standing on a small bridge over this stream, Mr. Abbott pointd out to me the site of the mill wheel which provided the power for the Mills.

A little higher up a verdant bank slopes down to the water’s edge, but is was not until Mr. Abbott acquired the property that the slope was made, as until 1927 there still remained the old wharf on to which the bales of rags from which the paper was made, were unloaded.

One could easily picture the barges mooring by the wharf, the bales being unloaded and carried off to the rag pits where they were pulled to pieces by women and taken to the mill itself.

Chimney Foundations Found

Some of these rag pits were filled in by Mr. Abbott when he bought the property, and the foundations of the tall chimney were dug up at the same time.

Mr. Abbott showed me an old photograph of the mill and chimney which, unfortunately, is too faded with age for reproduction. So changed is the site now, however, that it is scarcely possible to recognise the photograph.

The lower portion of the mill itself has been converted by Mr. Abbott into a garden house and a garage, and other buildings which were used for the manufacture of the paper are now utilised as garages etc.

The accompanying illustrations give some idea of the site as it was and as it is today.

The photograph shows what is now Mr. Abbott’s garden room, and if you look at the engraving you may recognise this garden room as the square building on the left of the mill. This engraving, incidentally, is reproduced from the letter head of one Thomas Nelson, paper maker, Wansford Mill, Northamptonshire, a sheet of which remains in Mr. Abbott’s possession.”

The Stamford Mercury, 13th, May, 1938.

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Another Stamford Mercury columnist picked up a mistake in S.H.E.’s reminiscences. However, it adds to her story and explains how the blind organist learnt his music.

“Blind Stamford Organist

My attention has been drawn to a slight straying from the path of strict accuracy by our ‘memorist,’ ‘S.H.E.,’ whose series of articles have proved so absorbingly interesting to readers of the ‘Mercury,’ who will share with me the regret I feel at the fact that, for the time being at least, her writings will disappear from our columns.

In last week’s article, ‘S.H.E.’ referred to Mr. Hilary Hewitt as the blind organist of St. Mary’s church, whereas the blind organist at St. Mary’s was Mr. William Marriott, who lived at Borderville and was led to the church by a boy. This information has been given to me by a septuagenarian resident of Stamford, who tells me that when she was a child she used to sit with a hymn-book before her reading out the notes as Mr. Marriott found them on the piano and so committed the hymn tunes to memory. In those days the Rev. A. C. Abdy was Rector of St. Mary’s, and the organ was exactly opposite its present situation.

Mr. Hilary Hewitt was a blind resident of St. Mary’s at the time, but, as far as my informant knows, had no occupation. His father was engaged in Burghley estate office, and his sister conducted a preparatory school at the house in St. Martin’s now occupied by Mr. Fred Miles.”

The Stamford Mercury, 13th May, 1938.

Some interesting pieces of folklore, legend and superstitions about the prickly holly bush, are presented in our third look back at Christmas items from the Stamford Mercury in December, 1927.

“Holly Lore.

Holly is a fine crop and beautifully berried this year. That is often the case after a wet summer, and the theory that this means a severe winter has even less to its credit than the tradition that a green Christmas spells a fat churchyard. Nevertheless, these popular sayings of the countryside should not be dismissed too dogmatically, for a spice of truth generally flavours the most grosteque delusions. Not a little legend surrounds this beautiful plant. One of the tales is that holly first sprang up under the feet of Christ when He trod our earth, and, as an addendum to this idea, we are assured that animals remember what man has forgotten, and thus they never harm the holly.

Ancient Superstitions.

An early classical writer attributed to holly wood the stange power of compelling any animal to return the thrower of a staff of holly, it the latter so disired it, and to lie down by the staff. A rather weird variation, this, on the familiar return of the Australian native’s boomerang, which returns to the thrower. Holly used to play an important part in West Country affaires. For instance, the oath on mining questions in the Forest of Dean was sworn on the holly-stick instead of the Bible. We used to export birdlime made from holly bark, they say, and, apart from alleged medical properties of the berry, the tree has had many other uses. There is no more lovely wood, when worked up and polished, than holly.

The Stamford Mercury, 23rd December, 1927.

Carve that bird! Dismember that fowl! Another look back at The Stamford Mercury for items about eating at Christmas in December, 1927.

“JUST CARVING

Synonymous though Christmas is with feasting, most children will be satisfied, as will their parents, with an admixture of turkey or goose, pudding, mince-pies, nuts and oranges. Certainly none of those strange dishes which graced our forefathers’ tables will be seen in many households. But no matter the nature of the the joint or bird which we shall eat with relish on Christmas-day – and, perhaps, rue on ‘Boxing-day – the dismemberment of the carcase is invariably referred to as ‘carving.’ We will, in these days of stereotyped production, have none of those weird and fanciful terms which a professional carver would apply to the disintegration of the various delicacies, placed before him on which to work. Father will not ‘disfigure’ a peacock, nor ‘spawl’ a hen, nor ‘break’ a deer, nor ‘rend’ a goose, nor ‘barb’ a lobster, not ‘ally’ a pheasant, nor ‘mince’ a plover. He will just carve, and if you ‘come again’ as you must do on Christmas-day, he will carve again. After all, the food’s the thing.

A BAN ON MINCEMEAT

There was a time in England when the Christmas mince pie was the subject of fierce controversy. The Puritans regarded the making and easting of these delicacies as a superstitious observance savouring of Popery, and Bunyan, when in prison refused to eat them lest he should ‘injure’ his morals. The reason was that the ingredients of the mince-pie, especially the spices, were supposed to have reference to the offering of the Wise Men. The pastry cover was oblong in shape, to represent the creche or manger where Our Savious was born. In the seventeenth century mince-pies were made of meats, tongues, chicken, eggs, sugar, currants, and lemon and orange peel, with various spices.”

The Stamford Mercury, 23rd December, 1927.

Looking back to Christmas, 1927, there are a number of interesting ‘snippets’ in the Mercury, mainly regarding the food and drink of yesteryear.

” DIMINISHING APPETITE

Some folk delight to assert that in the Christmas season there is too much over-eating, and that as a consequence the people who reap the benefit are the chemists and doctors. But a dip into old-time menus of feasts in the Christmas season impels one to the conclusion that individually much less is now eaten than in the old days, when gargantuan appetities, as we should think them now, appeared to be the rule, and not exceptions. Some of the dishes, too, were extremely outlandish, and items appeared in the list of good things that are scarcely ever heard of now, and, even if they are, would not be assiciated with the idea of providing an excellent dish. The lordly peacock, lamphreys*, and other items outside the ken of the up-to-date chef figured prominently.

AN EARLY MENU

Are Britishers less robust at the table, or is it that wisdom has grown with the years? Yet the heavy eaters of other days did not appear to suffer in health from their heartiness. They lived to a ripe old age and did the work of Old England, taking the difference of education into account, quite as well as those of a later generation. The account of a supper party, given by Madame de Sevigne in 1677, is intriguing. It mentions sundry soups, rounds of beef, sausages, spiced stews, calves’ and pigs’ tongues, hot pasties, a Christmas lamb surrounded by partidges, pheasants, turkeys, leverets, and capons, followed by salmon, trout, carp pie, thrushes, larks, ortolans, and fat quails. Then there were various kinds of pudding and liberal dessert for such as had a few corners to fill. Madame de Sevigne’s feasting did not appear to impair her faculties; she died in her 77th year.”

The Stamford Mercury, 23rd December, 1927.

* Now usually spelt ‘Lamprey‘.

A gallon of beer was the penalty for falling into the Thames in the nineteenth century dockside – if you wanted to be rescued.

” – On Wednesday the 16th Inst. a man of the name of Edwards, while working out a barge laden with coals at Queenhithe, had the misfortune to slip off the plank into the river. His companions, on hearing the splash in the water, ran to his assisstance, and instantly succeded in getting hold of his jacket; but, instead of immediately dragging him out, they barely kept his head above water, and began vociferating ‘Beer! beer!’ The man in the water in short time endeavoured to speak, but had no sooner opened his mouth than a wave, owing to his head being kept so low, gently glided down his throat, and prevented him; he was then allowed to stand up, the water being at the spot about four feet deep, but not to get out, and as well as the water in his throat would allow he bawled out ‘beer!’ His black companions on hearing him mention the word ‘beer,’ immediately assisted him in getting into the barge, and the whole gang of them shortly after repaired to the Farnham Castle, Trinity-lane, and ordered the landlady to send in a gallon of beer. On inquiring into these curious proceedings, it turned out that the coal-heavers have a standing rule, that if any man falls overboard, he is to be fined a gallon of beer; but as many of them, after being safely pulled out, have refused to comply with the rule, they now keep the unfortunate fellow in the water till he gives his consent by called our ‘beer!’ when they take him out, and proceed to a public-house, and drink a gallon at his expense.”

The Stamford Mercury, 25th April, 1828.

We now know it as a hotel and some will remember it as ‘home’ during the Stamford High School terms when it became a boarding house, but this is how Lady Anne’s House started life.

“In the early ‘eighties workmen were busy at the top of St. Martin’s turning three houses into one and building on at the back. The result was Lady Anne’s House. There were all sorts of rumourrs (sic) during the building operations. One was that Baron Rothschild was coming there to live. In the end, it turned out to be the Earl of Rosslyn – the fourth earl, with his stately wife and beautiful daughters. They would all come to church on a Sunday morning, giving us all something to look at. He was a fine, handsome man with a monocle and waxed moustache. In the winter he wore a coat with enormous sable collar and cuffs, each cuff as deep as a lady’s muff. he walked into church with a magnificent air, sat down and made his devotions into his glossy silk hat, which he held in his hand the while (we used to whisper ‘He’s counting them’). Then, having deposited his had, he stood up, fixed his eye-glass and gazed deliberately all over the church before settling down. He always joined very heartily in the service, as though he thoroughly enjoyed it.

It was said that he was a man given to language more forcible than polite. Once he was entertaining a dignitary of the church, when something annoyed him and he started to curse with his customary fluency. Suddenly he stopped and apologized, excusing himself on the grounds that he always called a spade a spade.

‘Indeed,’ said the cleric dryly, ‘I should have thought you would call it a damned agricultural implement.'”

The Stamford Mercury, 13th May, 1938.

S.H.E., reminiscing in 1938, looks back on the strange hobbies of some Stamford men in late Victorian times.

“A BLIND ORGANIST

Then, there was Mr. Hilary Hewitt. the blind organist at St. Mary’s. he lived with the petite, golden-haired Miss Hewitt, who kept a private school in St. Martin’s, next to Hibbin’s carriage works. You would see him tapping his stick at the edge of the pavement, usually humming cheerfully to himself. It was a great mystery to me how he learnt his pieces.

Three men stand out in my memory on account of their interesting hobbies. One was a chimney-sweep named Barlow, who lived in the Sheep-market. You went down two steps direct into his living-room – the brightest, cheeriest room you ever saw. How Mrs. Barlow gave her fire grate such a beautiful polish I do not know. She was as bright and as cheery as her room. But the great attraction was the pictures on the walls – needlework pictures worked in wool on canvas, the work of the sweep himself. He did not follow the usual method of counting the stitches from a copy – so many stitches of one colour, so many of another. No! He took an ordinary picture and made his own interpretation of it. I remember ‘Burghley House,’ ‘Peterborough Cathedral’ and ‘Melrose Abbey.’ I wonder if he finished the bunch of flowers he was engaged on, when a lady called with a handful of flowers, and he begged a water-lily for a model.

There was a wood-turner in Brookes’-court named Hawkins. He made cork models of public buildings with just a penknife and ordinary corks. he showed one at Stamford Fair one year. Now was it Burghley House or Peterborough Cathedral? I forget, but I know I paid a penny to go into a booth in Red Lion-Square, at the corner near Snarrt’s chemist shop, a the top of St. John’s-street.

I expect old Hitchcock is forgotten now. He was an old man with a fine head and face. He might have sat as a model for one of the twelve Apostles. I don’t know what his occupation was, but he collected the rents of the houses in Lumby’s-court (now terrace). It was said that he taught himself to read and write after he turned seventy, but the most extraordinary thing about him was his hobby. He had spent all his life trying to discover the secret of perpetual motion. Think of it!”

The Stamford Mercury, 6th May, 1938.

The Rutland Education Committee was opening a new school, which would appear to be what is now Casterton College, opened in 1939. It is not known whether earth closets were installed or if it had a change of heart and found the funds for flush toilets.

“If my information is correct – and I have no reason to think otherwise – the building sub-committee of the Rutland Education Committee have taken a remarkable attitude with regard to the new central school in Great Casterton.

The place, as is usual with all similar buildings, will be complete with all modern facilities, but there is one exception: the authorities have decided to instal earth closets – and in the year 1938 at that!

It is to be hoped that the decision is not final, for, with an adequate water supply such as Great Casterton is fortunate enough to possess, to build such antiquated and unhygienic conveniences is a step which should on no account be taken by any committee who pride themselves on being efficient.

It may be on the score of expense that the suggestion was agreed to , but is should be remembered that, with to-day’s restrictions, coupled with the recurring expense associated with the old-fashioned method of disposal, the latter may well be found to be the more costly. But in a question of this sort, which vitally affects the health of the rising generation, cost should not act as a deterrent, especially when one remembers the heavy expenditure incurred in other educational directions.

I hope the committee will rescind their resolution and thus save the name of Rutland, which, even if the smallest county in England, has the reputation of being among the most progressive and up-to-date.”

The Stamford Mercury, 13th May, 1938.

Boots, cleaning and blacking – another reminiscence from the nineteenth century by ‘S.H.E.’.

“ELASTIC-SIDED BOOTS FOR SUNDAYS.

Men, if course, wore heavy boots for work, but on Sundays they had lighter boots, laced, buttoned, or elastic sides. So did women. Elastic sides looked very smart when they were new, but were tiresome getting, on and off. Many a time I have had to pull off the elastic-sided boots of an elder. You took hold of the toe with one hand and the foot with the other and wriggled and pulled, until all at once you found yourself sitting on the floor, with the boot in your hand.

It was not very nice, especially when you had come home tired from a long walk, and we took long walks in those days. When I was quite small the whole family would walk from Stamford to Barnack and back on a Sunday.

Elastic sides were usually made of a soft dull kid, which could not be cleaned with blacking. You could buy kid reviver, but many people used milk or ink, but whatever you used, it was sponged on and left to dry dull.

For other kinds of leather there were none of the tins of boot-polish we use today. All boots were black and there were two kinds of blacking – liquid in stone bottles that was put on with a small sponge on the end of a stick or pats of blacking wrapped in oiled paper. This last was emptied into a saucer or tin and thinned down with water. It was applied with a small brush or rabbit’s foot, worked well into the leather with a medium brush and then polished with a soft one. People who were very particular kept and old silk handkerchief to give a finishing touch. It took a lot of time and hard brushing to make your boots look nice, but I think the old-fashioned blacking was a better preservative. Or perhaps it was that the leather of those days was of a superior quality.”

The Stamford Mercury, 8th April, 1938.