We had paused in Grantham on our way to Belvoir Castle, about six miles away, the seat of the Duke of Rutland.  This is one of the finest as well as most strikingly situated of the great baronial residences in England.  Standing on a gently rising hill, its many towers and battlements looking over the forests surrounding it, this vast pile more nearly fulfilled our ideas of feudal magnificence than any other we saw.  It is famous for its picture gallery, which contains many priceless originals by Gainsborough, Reynolds and others.  It has always been open to visitors every week-day, but it chanced at the time that the old duke was dangerously ill—­so ill, in fact, that his death occurred a little later on—­and visitors were not admitted.  We were able to take the car through the great park, which affords a splendid view of the exterior of the castle.

Near by is the village of Bottisford, whose remarkable church has been the burial place of the Manners family for five hundred years and contains some of the most complete monumental effigies in England.  These escaped the wrath of the Cromwellians, for the Earl of Manners was an adherent of the Protector.  In the market square at Bottisford stand the old whipping-post and stocks, curious relics of the days when these instruments were a common means of satisfying justice—­or what was then considered justice.  They were made of solid oak timbers and had withstood the sun and rain of two or three hundred years without showing much sign of decay.  Although the whipping-post and stocks used to be common things in English towns, we saw them preserved only at Bottisford.

On leaving Bottisford, our car dashed through the clear waters of a little river which runs through the town and which no doubt gave it the name.  We found several instances where no attempt had been made to bridge the streams, which were still forded as in primitive times.  In a short time we reached Newark, where we planned to stop for the night—­but it turned out otherwise.  We paused at the hotel which the guide-book honored with the distinction of being the best in the town and a courteous policeman of whom we inquired confirmed the statement.  We were offered our choice of several dingy rooms, but a glance at the time-worn furnishings and unattractive beds convinced us that if this were Newark’s best hotel we did not care to spend the night in Newark.  To the profound disgust of the landlady—­nearly all hotels in England are managed by women—­we took our car from the garage and sought more congenial quarters, leaving, I fear, anything but a pleasant impression behind us.  We paused a few minutes at the castle, which is the principal object of antiquity in Newark.  It often figured in early history; King John died here—­the best thing he ever did—­and it sustained many sieges until it was finally destroyed by the Parliamentarians—­pretty effectively destroyed, for there is little remaining except the walls fronting immediately on the river.