about it on the monument. There was a grand battle fought nigh this place, between Oliver’s men and the Royal party, and the Royal party had the worst of it, as I’m told they generally had; and Oliver’s men came into the town, and did a great deal of damage, and ill-treated the people. I can’t remember anything about the matter myself, for it happened just one hundred years before I was born, but my father was acquainted with an old countryman, who lived not many miles from here, who said he remembered perfectly well the day of the battle; that he was a boy at the time, and was working in a field near the place where the battle was fought, and he heard shouting and noise of firearms, and also the sound of several balls, which fell in the field near him. Come this way, measter, and I will show you some remains of that day’s field.” Leaving the monument, on which was inscribed an account of the life and sufferings of the Royalist Rector of Horncastle, I followed the sexton to the western end of the church, where, hanging against the wall, were a number of scythes stuck in the ends of poles. “Those are the weapons, measter,” said the sexton, “which the great people put into the hands of a number of the country folks, in order that they might use them against Oliver’s men; ugly weapons enough; however, Oliver’s men won, and Sir Jacob Ashley and his party were beat. And a rare time Oliver and his men had of it, till Oliver died, when the other party got the better, not by fighting, ’tis said, but through a General Monk, who turned sides. Ah, the old fellow that my father knew said he well remembered the time when General Monk went over and proclaimed Charles the Second. Bonfires were lighted everywhere, oxen roasted, and beer drunk by pailfuls; the country folks were drunk with joy, and something else; sung scurvy songs about Oliver to the tune of Barney Banks, and pelted his men, wherever they found them, with stones and dirt.” “The more ungrateful scoundrels they,” said I. “Oliver and his men fought the battle of English independence against a wretched king and corrupt lords. Had I been living at the time, I should have been proud to be a trooper of Oliver.” “You would, measter, would you? Well, I never quarrels with the opinions of people who come to look at the church, and certainly independence is a fine thing. I like to see a chap of an independent spirit, and if I were now to see the cove who refused to sell his horse to my Lord Screw and Whitefeather, and let Jack Dale have him, I would offer to treat him to a pint of beer—e’es, I would, verily. Well, measter, you have now seen the church, and all there’s in it worth seeing—so I’ll just lock up, and go and finish digging the grave I was about when you came, after which I must go into the fair to see how matters are going on. Thank ye, measter,” said he, as I put something into his hand; “thank ye kindly; ’tis not every one who gives me a shilling now-a-days who comes to see