strange relic of other days and ways, in the shape of a brass collar by which poor unfortunate lunatics were chained to a wall. Where the collar has gone no one seems to know or care; however, it has disappeared, to the grief of antiquaries. "Though I cannot show you the collar, I can still show you something curious and interesting," said our friend. Whereupon he went into the churchyard, and after some searching plucked a thistle; this did not seem anything wonderful to us, not being botanists, but he pointed out to us that it was peculiarly marked with unusual gray lines all over. This, we were informed, is called the "Holy Thistle," or "Mary's Thistle," and it used to be grown by the monks at Kirkstead Abbey a few miles away, and even until a few years ago specimens thereof might have been found in the fields that now surround the abbey ruins, but the farmers had rooted them all up. Arthur Thistlewood of the Cato Street conspiracy was born here at Horsington, we learnt, his real name being Burnet. The birthplace of still another famous man had we come across!
Next we drove on to Halstead Hall, an ancient building set back some way from the road, showing signs of its former importance, but now, like so many other ancient halls, converted into a pleasant farmstead. The hall was moated, but the moat has been drained dry; the house is famous locally for a daring and a remarkable robbery committed there in 1829,—an event that still affords subject for the country folk to talk and enlarge about, at least we heard a good deal about it. The house, we under-
