MIDWAY between the north-midland towns of Grantham and Nottingham, and just beyond the railway which joins them, lies the modest hamlet of Aslacton. 1 It is not of itself a parish; of old it belonged to Whatton on the south-east, and now it forms part of Scarrington on the north-west. Until recent years its spiritual needs were satisfied with a Primitive Methodist chapel and an Anglican mission room named, like some walks and mounds in the neighbourhood, after its one distinguished native. Its inhabitants do not number five hundred souls, and it covers less than thirteen hundred acres of land. The cross-roads, on which its cottages cluster, lead nowhere in particular, and the great Fosse Way passes it by in contempt four miles 2to the north-west. Beyond that lies Sherwood Forest, already in the days of Cranmer’s youth celebrated as the scene of the legendary exploits of Robin Hood. To the south-east a stream, dignified by the name of the River Smite, meanders down to its junction with the Devon and then loses itself in the great river, the Trent, at Newark. Beyond this stream the ground rises to the heights whence, in Armada days,

“Belvoir’s lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o’er the wide vale of Trent.” 1