Highways and Byways in Sussex
by E. V. Lucas · English · Gutenberg #20696 · 778,974 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Highways and Byways in Sussex
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Highways and Byways in Sussex
Author: E. V. Lucas
Illustrator: Frederick Landseer Maur Griggs
Release date: February 27, 2007 [eBook #20696]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20696
Credits: Produced by Peter Yearsley, Martin Pettit and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS IN SUSSEX ***
Produced by Peter Yearsley, Martin Pettit and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
_Highways and Byways in Sussex_
BY E. V. LUCAS
WITH . ILLUSTRATIONS . BY
FREDERICK L. GRIGGS
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON
1921
_COPYRIGHT._
_First Edition printed February 1904._
_Reprinted, April 1904, 1907, 1912, 1919, 1921._
[Illustration: _The Barbican, Lewes Castle._ _Frontispiece._]
PREFACE
Readers who are acquainted with the earlier volumes of this series will
not need to be told that they are less guide-books than appreciations of
the districts with which they are concerned. In the pages that follow my
aim has been to gather a Sussex bouquet rather than to present the facts
which the more practical traveller requires.
The order of progress through the country has been determined largely by
the lines of railway. I have thought it best to enter Sussex in the west
at Midhurst, making that the first centre, and to zig-zag thence across
to the east by way of Chichester, Arundel, Petworth, Horsham, Brighton
(I name only the chief centres), Cuckfield, East Grinstead, Lewes,
Eastbourne, Hailsham, Hastings, Rye, and Tunbridge Wells; leaving the
county finally at Withyham, on the borders of Ashdown Forest. For the
traveller in a carriage or on a bicycle this route is not the best; but
for those who would explore it slowly on foot (and much of the more
characteristic scenery of Sussex can be studied only in this way), with
occasional assistance from the train, it is, I think, as good a scheme
as any.
I do not suggest that it is necessary for the reader who travels through
Sussex to take the same route: he would probably prefer to cover the
county literally strip by strip--the Forest strip from Tunbridge Wells
to Horsham, the Weald strip from Billingshurst to Burwash, the Downs
strip from Racton to Beachy Head--rather than follow my course, north to
south, and south to north, across the land. But the book is, I think,
the gainer by these tangents, and certainly its author is happier, for
they bring him again and again back to the Downs.
It is impossible at this date to write about Sussex, in accordance with
the plan of the present series, without saying a great many things that
others have said before, and without making use of the historians of the
county. To the collections of the Sussex Archaeological Society I am
greatly indebted; also to Mr. J. G. Bishop's _Peep into the Past_, and
to Mr. W. D. Parish's _Dictionary of the Sussex Dialect_. Many other
works are mentioned in the text.
The history, archaeology, and natural history of the county have been
thoroughly treated by various writers; but there are, I have noticed,
fewer books than there should be upon Sussex men and women. Carlyle's
saying that every clergyman should write the history of his parish
(which one might amend to the history of his parishioners) has borne too
little fruit in our district; nor have lay observers arisen in any
number to atone for the shortcoming. And yet Sussex must be as rich in
good character, pure, quaint, shrewd, humorous or noble, as any other
division of England. In the matter of honouring illustrious Sussex men
and women, the late Mark Antony Lower played his part with _The Worthies
of Sussex_, and Mr. Fleet with _Glimpses of Our Sussex Ancestors_; but
the Sussex "Characters," where are they? Who has set down their "little
unremembered acts," their eccentricities, their sterling southern
tenacities? The Rev. A. D. Gordon wrote the history of Harting, and
quite recently the Rev. C. N. Sutton has published his interesting
_Historical Notes of Withyham, Hartfield, and Ashdown Forest_; and there
may be other similar parish histories which I am forgetting. But the
only books that I have seen which make a patient and sympathetic
attempt to understand the people of Sussex are Mr. Parish's
_Dictionary_, Mr. Egerton's _Sussex Folk and Sussex Ways_, and "John
Halsham's" _Idlehurst_. How many rare qualities of head and heart must
go unrecorded in rural England.
I have to thank my friend Mr. C. E. Clayton for his kindness in reading
the proofs of this book and in suggesting additions.
E. V. L.
_December 12, 1903._
P.S.--The sheets of the one-inch ordnance map of Sussex are fourteen in
all, their numbers running thus:
_________________________________________________________
| | | | | |
| 300 | 301 | 302 | 303 | 304 |
| Alresford | Haslemere | Horsham | T. Wells | Tenterden |
|___________|___________|_________|__________|___________|
| | | | | |
| 316 | 317 | 318 | 319 | 320 |
| Fareham |Chichester |Brighton | Lewes | Hastings |
|___________|___________|_________|__________|___________|
| | | | |
| 331 | 332 | 333 | 334 |
|Portsmouth | Bognor | Worthing|Eastbourne|
|___________|___________|_________|__________|
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION
In the present edition a number of small errors have been corrected and
a new chapter amplifying certain points and supplying a deficit here and
there has been added. The passage about Stane Street is reprinted from
the _Times Literary Supplement_ by kind permission.
E. V. L.
_April 20, 1904_
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
MIDHURST 1
CHAPTER II
MIDHURST'S VILLAGES 9
CHAPTER III
FIRST SIGHT OF THE DOWNS 23
CHAPTER IV
CHICHESTER 28
CHAPTER V
CHICHESTER AND THE HILLS 39
CHAPTER VI
CHICHESTER AND THE PLAIN 54
CHAPTER VII
ARUNDEL AND NEIGHBOURHOOD 68
CHAPTER VIII
LITTLEHAMPTON 75
CHAPTER IX
AMBERLEY AND PARHAM 84
CHAPTER X
PETWORTH 93
CHAPTER XI
BIGNOR 107
CHAPTER XII
HORSHAM 112
CHAPTER XIII
ST. LEONARD'S FOREST 123
CHAPTER XIV
WEST GRINSTEAD, COWFOLD AND HENFIELD 130
CHAPTER XV
STEYNING AND BRAMBER 135
CHAPTER XVI
CHANCTONBURY, WASHINGTON, AND WORTHING 145
CHAPTER XVII
BRIGHTON 160
CHAPTER XVIII
ROTTINGDEAN AND WHEATEARS 177
CHAPTER XIX
SHOREHAM 184
CHAPTER XX
THE DEVIL'S DYKE AND HURSTPIERPOINT 192
CHAPTER XXI
DITCHLING 207
CHAPTER XXII
CUCKFIELD 211
CHAPTER XXIII
FOREST COUNTRY AGAIN 221
CHAPTER XXIV
EAST GRINSTEAD 227
CHAPTER XXV
HORSTED KEYNES TO LEWES 233
CHAPTER XXVI
LEWES 239
CHAPTER XXVII
THE OUSE VALLEY 255
CHAPTER XXVIII
ALFRISTON 264
CHAPTER XXIX
SMUGGLING 273
CHAPTER XXX
GLYNDE AND RINGMER 280
CHAPTER XXXI
UCKFIELD AND BUXTED 292
CHAPTER XXXII
CROWBOROUGH AND MAYFIELD 301
CHAPTER XXXIII
HEATHFIELD AND THE "LIES" 307
CHAPTER XXXIV
EASTBOURNE 318
CHAPTER XXXV
PEVENSEY AND HURSTMONCEUX 328
CHAPTER XXXVI
HASTINGS 340
CHAPTER XXXVII
BATTLE ABBEY 348
CHAPTER XXXVIII
WINCHELSEA AND RYE 358
CHAPTER XXXIX
ROBERTSBRIDGE 376
CHAPTER XL
TUNBRIDGE WELLS 390
CHAPTER XLI
THE SUSSEX DIALECT 405
CHAPTER XLII
BEING A POSTSCRIPT TO THE SECOND EDITION 417
INDEX 439
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
THE BARBICAN, LEWES CASTLE _Frontispiece_
COWDRAY 4
BLACKDOWN 10
COWDRAY 22
CHICHESTER CATHEDRAL 31
CHICHESTER CROSS 35
THE RUINED NAVE OF BOXGROVE 39
BOXGROVE PRIORY CHURCH 41
BOXGROVE FROM THE SOUTH 43
EAST LAVANT 49
BOSHAM 54
ARUNDEL 68
THE ARUN AT NORTH STOKE 71
GATEWAY, AMBERLEY CASTLE 84
AMBERLEY CASTLE 87
AMBERLEY CASTLE, ENTRANCE TO CHURCHYARD 89
AMBERLEY CHURCH 91
PULBOROUGH CHURCH 93
AT PULBOROUGH 95
STOPHAM BRIDGE 97
THE ROTHER AT FITTLEWORTH 99
ALMSHOUSE AT PETWORTH 101
PETWORTH CHURCHYARD 104
THE CAUSEWAY, HORSHAM 112
COTTAGES AT SLINFOLD 118
RUDGWICK 121
CHURCH STREET, STEYNING 135
STEYNING CHURCH 138
BRAMBER 140
COOMBES CHURCH 142
CHANCTONBURY RING 145
SOMPTING 153
LANCING 157
NEW SHOREHAM CHURCH 185
OLD SHOREHAM BRIDGE 188
OLD SHOREHAM CHURCH 189
POYNINGS, FROM THE DEVIL'S DYKE 193
HANGLETON HOUSE 196
MALTHOUSE FARM, HURSTPIERPOINT 200
DITCHLING 207
OLD HOUSE AT DITCHLING 208
CUCKFIELD CHURCH 212
EAST MASCALLS--BEFORE RENOVATION 219
THE JUDGE'S HOUSES, EAST GRINSTEAD 228
ON THE OUSE, ABOVE LEWES 239
HIGH STREET, SOUTHOVER 241
ANN OF CLEVES' HOUSE, SOUTHOVER 246
ST. ANN'S CHURCH, SOUTHOVER 251
THE OUSE AT SOUTH STREET, LEWES 253
THE OUSE AT PIDDINGHOE 255
RODMELL 256
PIDDINGHOE 258
SOUTHOVER GRANGE 261
NEAR TARRING NEVILLE 263
GLYNDE 282
FRAMFIELD 293
IN BUXTED PARK 298
BEACHY HEAD 318
BEACHY HEAD FROM THE SHORE 325
PEVENSEY CASTLE 329
WESTHAM 333
HURSTMONCEUX CASTLE 335
BATTLE ABBEY--THE GATEWAY 349
MOUNT STREET, BATTLE 352
BATTLE ABBEY, THE REFECTORY 355
THE LANDGATE, RYE 359
SEDILIA AND TOMBS OF GERVASE AND
STEPHEN ALARD, WINCHELSEA 363
THE YPRES TOWER, RYE 365
COURT LODGE, UDIMORE 370
UDIMORE CHURCH 372
BREDE PLACE 373
BREDE PLACE, FROM THE SOUTH 375
BODIAM CASTLE 377
SHOYSWELL, NEAR TICEHURST 388
THE PANTILES, TUNBRIDGE WELLS 391
BAYHAM ABBEY 396
ASHDOWN FOREST, FROM EAST GRINSTEAD 403
MAP OF THE COUNTY OF SUSSEX _End paper_
[Illustration]
HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS IN SUSSEX
CHAPTER I
MIDHURST
The fitting order of a traveller's progress--The Downs the true
Sussex--Fashion at bay--Mr. Kipling's topographical
creed--Midhurst's advantages--Single railway lines--Queen Elizabeth
at Cowdray--Montagus domestic and homicidal--The curse of
Cowdray--Dr. Johnson at Midhurst--Cowdray Park.
If it is better, in exploring a county, to begin with its least
interesting districts and to end with the best, I have made a mistake in
the order of this book: I should rather have begun with the
comparatively dull hot inland hilly region of the north-east, and have
left it at the cool chalk Downs of the Hampshire border. But if one's
first impression of new country cannot be too favourable we have done
rightly in starting at Midhurst, even at the risk of a loss of
enthusiasm in the concluding chapters. For although historically,
socially, and architecturally north Sussex is as interesting as south
Sussex, the crown of the county's scenery is the Downs, and its most
fascinating districts are those which the Downs dominate. The farther we
travel from the Downs and the sea the less unique are our surroundings.
Many of the villages in the northern Weald, beautiful as they are, might
equally well be in Kent or Surrey: a visitor suddenly alighting in their
midst, say from a balloon, would be puzzled to name the county he was
in; but the Downs and their dependencies are essential Sussex. Hence a
Sussex man in love with the Downs becomes less happy at every step
northward.
[Sidenote: THE INVIOLATE HILLS]
One cause of the unique character of the Sussex Downs is their virginal
security, their unassailable independence. They stand, a silent
undiscovered country, between the seething pleasure towns of the
seaboard plain and the trim estates of the Weald. Londoners, for whom
Sussex has a special attraction by reason of its proximity (Brighton's
beach is the nearest to the capital in point of time), either pause
north of the Downs, or rush through them in trains, on bicycles, or in
carriages, to the sea. Houses there are among the Downs, it is true, but
they are old-established, the homes of families that can remember no
other homes. There is as yet no fashion for residences in these
altitudes. Until that fashion sets in (and may it be far distant) the
Downs will remain essential Sussex, and those that love them will
exclaim with Mr. Kipling,
God gave all men all earth to love,
But since man's heart is small,
Ordains for each one spot shall prove
Beloved over all.
* * * * *
Each to his choice, and I rejoice
The lot has fallen to me
In a fair ground--in a fair ground--
Yea, Sussex by the sea!
[Sidenote: MIDHURST]
If we are to begin our travels in Sussex with the best, then Midhurst is
the starting point, for no other spot has so much to offer: a quiet
country town, gabled and venerable, unmodernised and unambitious, with a
river, a Tudor ruin, a park of deer, heather commons, immense woods, and
the Downs only three miles distant. Moreover, Midhurst is also the
centre of a very useful little railway system, which, having only a
single line in each direction, while serving the traveller, never annoys
him by disfiguring the country or letting loose upon it crowds of
vandals. Single lines always mean thinly populated country. As a
pedestrian poet has sung:--
My heart leaps up when I behold
A single railway line;
For then I know the wood and wold
Are almost wholly mine.
And Midhurst being on no great high road is nearly always quiet. Nothing
ever hurries there. The people live their own lives, passing along their
few narrow streets and the one broad one, under the projecting eaves of
timbered houses, unrecking of London and the world. Sussex has no more
contented town.
The church, which belongs really to St. Mary Magdalen, but is popularly
credited to St. Denis, was never very interesting, but is less so now
that the Montagu tomb has been moved to Easebourne. Twenty years ago, I
remember, an old house opposite the church was rumoured to harbour a
pig-faced lady. I never had sight of her, but as to her existence and
her cast of feature no one was in the least doubt. Pig-faced ladies
(once so common) seem to have gone out, just as the day of Spring-heeled
Jack is over. Sussex once had her Spring-heeled Jacks, too, in some
profusion.
[Illustration: _Cowdray._]
[Sidenote: ELIZABETH AT COWDRAY]
Cowdray Park is gained from the High Street, just below the Angel Inn,
by a causeway through water meadows of the Rother. The house is now but
a shell, never having been rebuilt since the fire which ate out its
heart in 1793: yet a beautiful shell, heavily draped in rich green ivy
that before very long must here and there forget its earlier duty of
supporting the walls and thrust them too far from the perpendicular to
stand. Cowdray, built in the reign of Henry VIII., did not come to its
full glory until Sir Anthony Browne, afterwards first Viscount Montagu,
took possession. The seal was put upon its fame by the visit of Queen
Elizabeth in 1591 (Edward VI. had been banqueted there by Sir Anthony in
1552, "marvellously, nay, rather excessively," as he wrote), as some
return for the loyalty of her host, who, although an old man, in 1588,
on the approach of the Armada, had ridden straightway to Tilbury, with
his sons and his grandson, the first to lay the service of his house at
her Majesty's feet. A rare pamphlet is still preserved describing the
festivities during Queen Elizabeth's sojourn. On Saturday, about eight
o'clock, her Majesty reached the house, travelling from Farnham, where
she had dined. Upon sight of her loud music sounded. It stopped when she
set foot upon the bridge, and a real man, standing between two wooden
dummies whom he exactly resembled, began to flatter her exceedingly.
Until she came, he said, the walls shook and the roof tottered, but one
glance from her eyes had steadied the turret for ever. He went on to
call her virtue immortal and herself the Miracle of Time, Nature's
Glory, Fortune's Empress, and the World's Wonder. Elizabeth, when he had
made an end, took the key from him and embraced Lady Montagu and her
daughter, the Lady Dormir; whereupon "the mistress of the house (as it
were weeping in the bosome) said, 'O happie time! O joyfull daie!'"
[Sidenote: A QUEEN'S DIVERSIONS]
These preliminaries over, the fun began. At breakfast next morning three
oxen and a hundred and forty geese were devoured. On Monday, August
17th, Elizabeth rode to her bower in the park, took a crossbow from a
nymph who sang a sweet song, and with it shot "three or four" deer,
carefully brought within range. After dinner, standing on one of the
turrets she watched sixteen bucks "pulled down with greyhounds" in a
lawn. On Tuesday, the Queen was approached by a pilgrim, who first
called her "Fairest of all creatures," and expressed the wish that the
world might end with her life and then led her to an oak whereon were
hanging escutcheons of her Majesty and all the neighbouring noblemen and
gentlemen. As she looked, a "wilde man" clad all in ivy appeared and
delivered an address on the importance of loyalty. On Wednesday, the
Queen was taken to a goodlie fish-pond (now a meadow) where was an
angler. After some words from him a band of fishermen approached,
drawing their nets after them; whereupon the angler, turning to her
Majesty, remarked that her virtue made envy blush and stand amazed.
Having thus spoken, the net was drawn and found to be full of fish,
which were laid at Elizabeth's feet. The entry for this day ends with
the sentence, "That evening she hunted." On Thursday the lords and
ladies dined at a table forty-eight yards long, and there was a country
dance with tabor and pipe, which drew from her Majesty "gentle
applause." On Friday, the Queen knighted six gentlemen and passed on to
Chichester.
[Sidenote: A DESPERADO POET]
A year later the first Lord Montagu died. He was succeeded by another
Anthony, the author of the "Book of Orders and Rules" for the use of the
family at Cowdray, and the dedicatee of Anthony Copley's _Fig for
Fortune_, 1596. Copley has a certain Sussex interest of his own, having
astonished not a little the good people of Horsham. A contemporary
letter describes him as "the most desperate youth that liveth. He did
shoot at a gentleman last summer, and did kill an ox with a musket, and
in Horsham church he threw his dagger at the parish clerk, and it stuck
in a seat of the church. There liveth not his like in England for sudden
attempts." Subsequently the conspirator-poet must have calmed down, for
he states in the dedication to my lord that he is "now winnowed by the
fan of grace and Zionry." To-day he would say "saved." Copley, after
narrowly escaping capital punishment for his share in a Jesuit plot,
disappeared.
The instructions given in Lord Montagu's "Booke of Orders and Rules"
illustrate very vividly the generous amplitude of the old Cowdray
establishment. Thus:--
MY CARVER AND HIS OFFICE.
I will that my carver, when he cometh to the ewerye boorde, doe
there washe together with the Sewer, and that done be armed
(videlt.) with an armeinge towell cast about his necke, and putt
under his girdle on both sides, and one napkyn on his lefte
shoulder, and an other on the same arme; and thence beinge broughte
by my Gentleman Usher to my table, with two curteseyes thereto, the
one about the middest of the chamber, the other when he cometh to
ytt, that he doe stande seemely and decently with due reverence and
sylence, untill my dyett and fare be brought uppe, and then doe his
office; and when any meate is to be broken uppe that he doe carrye
itt to a syde table, which shalbe prepared for that purpose and
there doe ytt; when he hath taken upp the table, and delivered the
voyder to the yeoman Usher, he shall doe reverence and returne to
the ewrye boorde there to be unarmed. My will is that for that day
he have the precedence and place next to my Gentleman Usher at the
wayter's table.
MY GENTLEMEN WAYTERS.
I will that some of my Gentlemen Wayters harken when I or my wiffe
att any tyme doe walke abroade, that they may be readye to give
their attendance uppon us, some att one tyme and some att another
as they shall agree amongst themselves; but when strangeres are in
place, then I will that in any sorte they be readye to doe such
service for them as the Gentleman Usher shall directe. I will
further that they be dayly presente in the greate chamber or other
place of my dyett about tenn of the clocke in the forenoone and
five in the afternoone without fayle for performance of my service,
unles they have license from my Stewarde or Gentleman Usher to the
contrarye, which if they exceede, I will that they make knowne the
cause thereof to my Stewarde, who shall acquaynte me therewithall.
I will that they dyne and suppe att a table appoynted for them, and
there take place nexte after the Gentlemen of my Horse and chamber,
accordinge to their seniorityes in my service.
[Sidenote: THE HOUSE OF MONTAGU]
The third Viscount Montagu was not remarkable, but his account books are
quaint reading. From July, 1657, to July, 1658, his steward spent
_L_1,945 10_s._ solely in little personal matters for his master. Among
the disbursements were, on September 11th, fourteen pence "for washing
Will Stapler"; on November 22nd, 1_s._ 4_d._ to the Lewes carrier "for
bringing a box of puddings for my mistress and my master"; on January
17th, _L_4 to "Mr. Fiske the dancing-master for teaching my master to
dance, being two months"; and on April 21st, seven shillings "for a
Tooth for my Lord."
The fifth Viscount was a man of violent temper. On reaching Mass one day
and finding it half done, he drew his pistol and shot the chaplain. The
outcry all over the country was loud and vengeful, and my lord lay
concealed for fifteen years in a hiding-hole contrived in the masonry of
Cowdray for the shelter of persecuted priests. The peer emerged only at
night, when he roamed the close walks, repentant and sad. Lady Montagu
would then steal out to him, dressing all in white to such good purpose
that the desired rumours of a ghost soon flew about the neighbourhood.
The curse of Cowdray, which, if genuinely pronounced, has certainly been
wonderfully fulfilled, dates from the gift of Battle Abbey by Henry
VIII. to Sir Anthony Browne, the father of Queen Elizabeth's host and
friend. Sir Anthony seized his new property, and turned the monks out
of the gates, in 1538. Legend says that as the last monk departed, he
warned his despoiler that by fire and water his line should perish. By
fire and water it perished indeed. A week after Cowdray House was
burned, in 1793, the last Viscount Montagu was drowned in the Rhine. His
only sister (the wife of Mr. Stephen Poyntz) who inherited, was the
mother of two sons both of whom were drowned while bathing at Bognor.
When Mr. Poyntz sold the estate to the Earl of Egmont, we may suppose
the curse to have been withdrawn.
[Sidenote: DR. JOHNSON AT COWDRAY]
Among the treasures that were destroyed in the fire were the Roll of
Battle Abbey and many paintings. Dr. Johnson visited Cowdray a few years
before its demolition; "Sir," he said to Boswell, "I should like to stay
here four-and-twenty hours. We see here how our ancestors lived."
According to the _Tour of Great Britain_, attributed to Daniel Defoe,
but probably by another hand, Cowdray's hall was of Irish oak. In the
large parlour were the triumphs of Henry VIII. by Holbein. In the long
gallery were the Twelve Apostles "as large as life"; while the marriage
of Cupid and Psyche, a tableau that never failed to please our
ancestors, was not wanting.
The glory of the Montagus has utterly passed. The present Earl of Egmont
is either an absentee or he lives in a cottage near the gates; and the
new house, which is hidden in trees, is of no interest. The park,
however, is still ranged by its beautiful deer, and still possesses an
avenue of chestnut trees and rolling wastes of turf. It is everywhere as
free as a heath.
CHAPTER II
MIDHURST'S VILLAGES
Hanging in chains--A wooded paradise--Fernhurst--Shulbrede
Priory--Blackdown--Tennyson's Sussex home--Thomas Otway--Kate
Hotspur's Grave--A Sussex ornithologist--The friend of
owls--William Cobbett looks at the Squire--The charms of South
Harting--Lady Mary Caryll's little difficulties--Gilbert White in
Sussex--The old field routine--Witchcraft at South Harting--The
Rother--Easebourne--West Lavington and Cardinal Manning.
The road from Midhurst to Blackdown ascends steadily to Henley,
threading vast woods and preserves. On the left is a great common, on
the right North Heath, where the two Drewitts were hanged in chains
after being executed at Horsham, in 1799, for the robbery of the
Portsmouth mail--probably the last instance of hanging in chains in this
country. For those that like wild forest country there was once no
better ramble than might be enjoyed here; but now (1903) that the King's
new sanatorium is being built in the midst of Great Common, some of the
wildness must necessarily be lost. A finer site could not have been
found. Above Great Common is a superb open space nearly six hundred feet
high, with gorse bushes advantageously placed to give shelter while one
studies the Fernhurst valley, the Haslemere heights and, blue in the
distance, the North Downs. Sussex has nothing wilder or richer than the
country we are now in.
A few minutes' walk to the east from this lofty common, and we are
immediately above Henley, clinging to the hill side, an almost Alpine
hamlet. Henley, however, no longer sees the travellers that once it did,
for the coach road, which of old climbed perilously through it, has been
diverted in a curve through the hanger, and now sweeps into Fernhurst by
way of Henley Common.
[Illustration: _Blackdown._]
[Sidenote: FERNHURST]
Fernhurst, beautifully named, is in an exquisite situation among the
minor eminences of the Haslemere range, but the builder has been busy
here, and the village is not what it was.
[Sidenote: SHULBREDE PRIORY]
Two miles to the north-west, on the way to Linchmere, immediately under
the green heights of Marley, is the old house which once was Shulbrede
Priory. As it is now in private occupation and is not shown to
strangers, I have not seen it; but of old many persons journeyed
thither, attracted by the quaint mural paintings, in the Prior's room,
of domestic animals uttering speech. "Christus natus est," crows the
cock. "Quando? Quando?" the duck inquires. "In hac nocte," says the
raven. "Ubi? Ubi?" asks the cow, and the lamb satisfies her: "Bethlehem,
Bethlehem."
One may return deviously from Shulbrede to Midhurst (passing in the
heart of an unpopulated country a hamlet called Milland, where is an old
curiosity shop of varied resources) by way of one of the pleasantest and
narrowest lanes that I know, rising and falling for miles through silent
woods, coming at last to Chithurst church, one of the smallest and
simplest and least accessible in the county, and reaching Midhurst again
by the hard, dry and irreproachable road that runs between the heather
of Trotton Common.
On the eastern side of Fernhurst, to which we may now return, a mile on
the way to Lurgashall, was once Verdley Castle; but it is now a castle
no more, merely a ruined heap. Utilitarianism was too much for it, and
its stones fell to Macadam. After all, if an old castle has to go, there
are few better forms of reincarnation for it than a good hard road.
While at Fernhurst it is well to walk on to Blackdown, the best way,
perhaps, being to take the lane to the right about half a mile beyond
the village, and make for the hill across country. Blackdown, whose
blackness is from its heather and its firs, frowns before one all the
while. The climb to the summit is toilsome, over nine hundred feet, but
well worth the effort, for the hill overlooks hundreds of square miles
of Sussex and Surrey, between Leith Hill in the north and Chanctonbury
in the south.
[Sidenote: TENNYSON'S SUSSEX HOME]
Aldworth, Tennyson's house, is on the north-east slope, facing Surrey.
The poet laid the foundation stone on April 23 (Shakespeare's birthday),
1868: the inscription on the stone running "Prosper thou the work of our
hands, O prosper thou our handiwork." Of the site Aubrey de Vere
wrote:--"It lifted England's great poet to a height from which he could
gaze on a large portion of that English land which he loved so well, see
it basking in its most affluent summer beauty, and only bounded by 'the
inviolate sea.' Year after year he trod its two stately terraces with
men the most noted of their time." Pilgrims from all parts journeyed
thither--not too welcome; among them that devout American who had worked
his way across the Atlantic in order to recite _Maud_ to its author: a
recitation from which, says the present Lord Tennyson, his father
"suffered." Tennyson has, I think, no poems upon his Sussex home, but I
always imagine that the dedication of _The Death of Oenone and other
Poems_, in 1894, must belong to Blackdown:--
There on the top of the down,
The wild heather round me and over me June's high blue,
When I look'd at the bracken so bright and the heather so brown,
I thought to myself I would offer this book to you,
This, and my love together,
To you that are seventy-seven,
With a faith as clear as the heights of the June-blue heaven,
And a fancy as summer-new
As the green of the bracken amid the gloom of the heather.
The most interesting village between Midhurst and the western boundary,
due west, is Trotton, three miles distant on the superb road to
Petersfield, of which I have spoken above. There is no better road in
England. Trotton is quiet and modest, but it has two great claims on
lovers of the English drama. In the "Ode to Pity" of one of our Sussex
poets we read thus of another:--
But wherefore need I wander wide
To old Ilissus' distant side,
Deserted streams and mute?
Wild Arun, too, has heard thy strains,
And echo, 'midst my native plains,
Been soothed by pity's lute.
There first the wren thy myrtles shed
On gentlest Otway's infant head,
To him thy cell was shown;
And while he sung the female heart,
With youth's soft notes unspoiled by art,
Thy turtles mixed their own.
[Sidenote: THOMAS OTWAY]
So wrote William Collins, adding in a note that the Arun (more properly
the Rother, a tributary of the Arun) runs by the village of Trotton, in
Sussex, where Thomas Otway had his birth. The unhappy author of _Venice
Preserv'd_ and _The Orphan_ was born at Trotton in 1652, the son of
Humphrey Otway, the curate, who afterwards became rector of Woolbeding
close by. Otway died miserably when only thirty-three, partly of
starvation, partly of a broken heart at the unresponsiveness of Mrs.
Barry, the actress, whom he loved, but who preferred the Earl of
Rochester. His two best plays, although they are no longer acted, lived
for many years, providing in Belvidera, in _Venice Preserv'd_ and
Monimia, in _The Orphan_ (in which he "sung the female heart") congenial
_roles_ for tragic actresses--Mrs. Barry, Mrs. Oldfield, Mrs. Cibber,
Mrs. Siddons and Miss O'Neill. Otway was buried in the churchyard of St.
Clement Danes, but a tablet to his fame is in Trotton church, which is
of unusual plainness, not unlike an ecclesiastical barn. Here also is
the earliest known brass to a woman--Margaret de Camoys, who lived about
1300.
[Sidenote: HOTSPUR'S LADY]
The transition is easy (at Trotton) from Otway to Shakespeare, from
_Venice Preserv'd_ to _Henry IV._
HOTSPUR (to LADY PERCY). Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying
down: come quick, quick; that I may lay my head in thy lap.
_Lady P._ Go, ye giddy goose. [_The music plays._
_Hot._ Now I perceive, the devil understands Welsh;
And 't is no marvel' he's so humorous,
By'r lady, he's a good musician.
_Lady P._ Then should you be nothing but musical; for you are
altogether governed by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear the
lady sing in Welsh.
_Hot._ I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish.
_Lady P._ Wouldst have thy head broken?
_Hot._ No.
_Lady P._ Then be still.
_Hot._ Neither: 'tis a woman's fault.
_Lady P._ Now God help thee!
_Hot._ To the Welsh lady's bed.
_Lady P._ What's that?
_Hot._ Peace! she sings.
[_A Welsh song sung by_ LADY MORTIMER.
_Hot._ Come, Kate, I'll have your song too.
_Lady P._ Not mine, in good sooth.
_Hot._ Not yours, in good sooth! 'Heart, you swear like a
comfit-maker's wife. 'Not you, in good sooth'; and, 'As true as I
live'; and,
'As God shall mend me'; and, 'As sure as day':
And giv'st such sarcenet surety for thy oaths,
As if thou never walk'dst further than Finsbury.
Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art,
A good mouth-filling oath; and leave 'in sooth,'
And such protest of pepper-gingerbread,
To velvet-guards and Sunday-citizens.
Come, sing.
_Lady P._ I will not sing.
_Hot._ 'Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be redbreast teacher.
An the indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours; and
so come in when ye will. [_Exit._
My excuse for introducing this little scene is that Kate, whose real
name was Elizabeth, lies here. Her tomb is in the chancel, where she
reposes beside her second husband Thomas, Lord Camoys, beneath a slab on
which are presentments in brass of herself and her lord. It was this
Lord Camoys who rebuilt Trotton's church, about 1400, and who also gave
the village its beautiful bridge over the Rother at a cost, it used to
be said, of only a few pence less than that of the church.
Trotton has still other literary claims. At Trotton Place lived Arthur
Edward Knox, whose _Ornithological Rambles in Sussex_, published in
1849, is one of the few books worthy to stand beside White's _Natural
History of Selborne_. In Sussex, as elsewhere, the fowler has prevailed,
and although rare birds are still occasionally to be seen, they now
visit the country only by accident, and leave it as soon as may be,
thankful to have a whole skin. Guns were active enough in Knox's time,
but to read his book to-day is to be translated to a new land. From time
to time I shall borrow from Mr. Knox's pages: here I may quote a short
passage which refers at once to his home and to his attitude to those
creatures whom he loved to study and studied to love:--"I have the
satisfaction of exercising the rites of hospitality towards a pair of
barn owls, which have for some time taken up their quarters in one of
the attic roofs of the ancient, ivy-covered house in which I reside. I
delight in listening to the prolonged snoring of the young when I ascend
the old oak stairs to the neighbourhood of their nursery, and in hearing
the shriek of the parent birds on the calm summer nights as they pass to
and fro near my window; for it assures me that they are still safe; and
as I know that at least a qualified protection is afforded them
elsewhere, and that even their arch-enemy the gamekeeper is beginning
reluctantly, but gradually, to acquiesce in the general belief of their
innocence and utility, I cannot help indulging the hope that this bird
will eventually meet with that general encouragement and protection to
which its eminent services so richly entitle it."
[Sidenote: COBBETT LOOKS AT THE SQUIRE]
One more literary association: it was at Trotton that William Cobbett
looked at the squire. "From Rogate we came on to Trotton, where a Mr.
Twyford is the squire, and where there is a very fine and ancient church
close by the squire's house. I saw the squire looking at some poor
devils who were making 'wauste improvements, ma'am,' on the road which
passes by the squire's door. He looked uncommonly hard at me. It was a
scrutinising sort of look, mixed, as I thought, with a little surprise,
if not of jealousy, as much as to say, 'I wonder who the devil you can
be?' My look at the squire was with the head a little on one side, and
with the cheek drawn up from the left corner of the mouth, expressive of
anything rather than a sense of inferiority to the squire, of whom,
however, I had never heard speak before."
[Sidenote: HARTING'S RICHES]
By passing on to Rogate, whose fine church not long since was restored
too freely, and turning due south, we come to what is perhaps the most
satisfying village in all Sussex--South Harting. Cool and spacious and
retired, it lies under the Downs, with a little subsidiary range of its
own to shelter it also from the west. Three inns are ready to refresh
the traveller--the Ship, the White Hart (a favourite Sussex sign), and
the Coach and Horses (with a new signboard of dazzling freshness); the
surrounding country is good; Petersfield and Midhurst are less than an
hour's drive distant; while the village has one of the most charming
churches in Sussex, both without and within. Unlike most of the county's
spires, South Harting's is slate and red shingle, but the slate is of an
agreeable green hue, resembling old copper. (Perhaps it is copper.) The
roof is of red tiles mellowed by weather, and the south side of the
tower is tiled too, imparting an unusual suggestion of warmth--more, of
comfort--to the structure; while on the east wall of the chancel is a
Virginian creeper, which, as autumn advances, emphasises this effect.
Within, the church is winning, too, with its ample arches, perfect
proportions, and that aesthetic satisfaction that often attends the
cruciform shape. An interesting monument of the Cowper and Coles
families is preserved in the south transept--three full-size coloured
figures. In the north transept is a spiral staircase leading to the
tower, and elsewhere are memorials of the Fords and Featherstonhaughs of
Up-Park, a superb domain over the brow of Harting's Down, and of the
Carylls of Lady Holt, of whom we shall see more directly. The east
window is a peculiarly cheerful one, and the door of South Harting
church is kept open, as every church door should be, but as too many in
Sussex are not.
In the churchyard, beneath a shed, are the remains of two tombs, with
recumbent stone figures, now in a fragmentary state. At the church gates
are the old village stocks.
[Sidenote: MRS. JONES' MULYGRUBES]
Harting has a place in literature, for one of the Carylls was Pope's
friend, John (1666-1736), a nephew of the diplomatist and dramatist.
Pope's Caryll, who suggested _The Rape of the Lock_, lived at Lady Holt
at West Harting (long destroyed) and also at West Grinstead, where, as
we shall see, the poem was largely written. Mr. H. D. Gordon, rector of
Harting for many years, wrote a history of his parish in 1877: a very
interesting, gossipy book; where we may read much of the Caryll family,
including passages from their letters--how Lady Mary Caryll had the kind
impulse to take one of the parson's nine daughters to France to educate
and befriend, but was so thoughtless as to transform into a pretty
Papist; how Lady Mary disliked Mrs. Jones, the steward's wife; and many
other matters. I quote a passage from a letter of Lady Mary's about Mrs.
Jones, showing that human nature was not then greatly different from
what it is to-day:--"Mr. Joans and his fine Madam came down two days
before your birthday and expected to lye in the house, but as I
apprehended the consequence of letting them begin so, I made an excuse
for want of roome by expecting company, and sent them to Gould's [Arthur
Gould married Kate Caryll, and lived at Harting Place], where they
stayed two nights. I invited them the next day to dinner and they came,
but the day following Madam huff'd (I believe), for she went away to
Barnard's, and wou'd not so much as see the desert [dessert]; however, I
don't repent it, he has been here at all the merryment, and I believe
you'll find it better to keep them at a civil distance than other ways,
for she seems a high dame and not very good humoured, for she has been
sick ever since of the mulygrubes." Mrs. Jones soon afterwards succumbed
either to the mulygrubes or a worse visitation. Lady Mary thus broke the
news:--"Mr. Jones's wife dyed on Sunday, just as she lived, an
Independent, and wou'd have no parson with her, because she sayd she
cou'd pray as well as they. He is making a great funerall, but I believe
not in much affection, for he was all night at a merry bout two days
before she died."
On the arrival of the young Squire Caryll at Lady Holt with his bride,
in 1739, Paul Kelly, the bailiff, informed Lady Mary that the villagers
conducted their lord and lady home "with the upermost satisfaction"--a
good phrase.
Mr. Gordon writes elsewhere in his book of a famous writer whom
Hampshire claims: "For at least forty years (1754-1792) Gilbert White
was an East Harting squire. The bulk of his property was at Woodhouse
and Nye woods, on the northern slope of East Harting, and bounded on the
west by the road to Harting station. The passenger from Harting to the
railway has on his right, immediately opposite the 'Severals' wood,
Gilbert White's Farm, extending nearly to the station. White had also
other Harting lands. These were upon the Downs, viz.:--a portion of the
Park of Uppark on the south side, and a portion of Kildevil Lane, on the
North Marden side of Harting Hill. Gilbert White was on his mother's
side a Ford, and these lands had been transmitted to him through his
great uncle, Oliver Whitby, nephew to Sir Edward Ford."
[Sidenote: THE OLD FIELD ROUTINE]
A glimpse of the old Sussex field routine, not greatly changed in the
remote districts to-day, was given to Mr. Gordon thirty years ago by an
aged labourer. This was the day:--"Out in morning at four o'clock.
Mouthful of bread and cheese and pint of ale. Then off to the harvest
field. Rippin and moen [reaping and mowing] till eight. Then morning
brakfast and small beer. Brakfast--a piece of fat pork as thick as your
hat [a broad-brimmed wideawake] is wide. Then work till ten o'clock:
then a mouthful of bread and cheese and a pint of strong beer
['farnooner,' _i.e._, forenooner; 'farnooner's-lunch,' we called it].
Work till twelve. Then at dinner in the farm-house; sometimes a leg of
mutton, sometimes a piece of ham and plum pudding. Then work till five,
then a _nunch_ and a quart of ale. Nunch was cheese, 'twas skimmed
cheese though. Then work till sunset, then home and have supper and a
pint of ale. I never knew a man drunk in the harvest field in my life.
Could drink six quarts, and believe that a man might drink two gallons
in a day. All of us were in the house [_i.e._, the usual hired servants,
and those specially engaged for the harvest]: the yearly servants used
to go with the monthly ones.
"There were two thrashers, and the head thrasher used always to go
before the reapers. A man could cut according to the goodness of the
job, half-an-acre a day. The terms of wages were _L_3 10_s._ to 50_s._
for the month.
"When the hay was in cock or the wheat in shock, then the Titheman come;
you didn't dare take up a field without you let him know. If the
Titheman didn't come at the time, you tithed yourself. He marked his
sheaves with a bough or bush. You couldn't get over the Titheman. If you
began at a hedge and made the tenth cock smaller than the rest, the
Titheman might begin in the middle just where he liked. The Titheman at
Harting, old John Blackmore, lived at Mundy's [South Harting Street].
His grandson is blacksmith at Harting now. All the tithing was quiet.
You didn't dare even set your eggs till the Titheman had been and ta'en
his tithe. The usual day's work was from 7 to 5."
[Sidenote: A SUSSEX WITCH]
Like all Sussex villages, Harting has had its witches and possessors of
the evil eye. Most curious of these was old Mother Digby (_nee_ Mollen),
who, in Mr. Gordon's words, lived at a house in Hog's Lane, East
Harting, and had the power of witching herself into a hare, and was
continually, like Hecate, attended by dogs. Squire Russell, of Tye Oak,
always lost his hare at the sink-hole of a drain near by the old lady's
house. One day the dogs caught hold of the hare by its hind quarters,
but it escaped down the drain, and Squire Russell, instantly opening the
old beldame's door, found her rubbing the part of her body corresponding
to that by which the hound had seized the hare. Squire Caryll, however,
declined to be hard on the broomstick and its riders, as the following
entry in the records of the Court Leet, held for the Hundred of Dumford
in 1747, shows:--"Also we present the Honble. John Caryll, Esq., Lord of
this Mannor, for not having and keeping a Ducking Stool within the said
Hundred of Dumford according to law, for the ducking of scolds and other
disorderly persons."
[Sidenote: THE BEACON FIRES]
The road from South Harting to Elsted runs under the hills, which here
rise abruptly from the fields, to great heights, notably Beacon Hill,
like a huge green mammoth, 800 feet high, on which, before the days of
telegraphy, lived the signaller, who passed on the tidings of danger on
the coast to the next beacon hill, above Henley, and so on to London. In
the days of Napoleon, when any moment might reveal the French fleet, the
Sussex hill tops must often have smouldered under false alarms. The next
hill in the east is Treyford Hill, above Treyford village, whose church
tower, standing on a little hill of its own nearly three hundred feet
high, might take a lesson in beauty from South Harting's, although its
spire has a slenderness not to be improved. Next to Treyford Hill is
Didling Hill, above Didling, and then Linch Down, highest of all in
these parts, being 818 feet.
Elsted, which has no particular interest, possesses an inn, the Three
Horse Shoes, on a site superior to that of many a nobleman's house. It
stands high above a rocky lane, commanding a superb sidelong view of the
Downs and the Weald.
Midhurst's river is the Rother (not to be confounded with the Rother in
the east of Sussex), which flows into the Arun near Hardham. It is wide
enough at Midhurst for small boats, and is a very graceful stream on
which to idle and watch the few kingfishers that man has spared. One may
walk by its side for miles and hear no sound save the music of
repose--the soft munching of the cows in the meadows, the chuckle of the
water as a rat slips in, the sudden yet soothing plash caused by a
jumping fish. Around one's head in the evening the stag-beetle buzzes
with its multiplicity of wings and fierce lobster-like claws
out-stretched.
Following the Rother to the west one comes first to Easebourne, a shady
cool village only a few steps from Midhurst, once notable for its
Benedictine Priory of nuns. Henry VIII. put an end to its religious
life, which, however, if we may believe the rather disgraceful
revelations divulged at an episcopal examination, for some years had not
been of too sincere a character. In Easebourne church is the handsome
tomb of the first Viscount Montagu (the host of Queen Elizabeth), which
was brought hither from Midhurst church some forty years ago. Beyond
Easebourne, on the banks of the Rother, is Woolbeding, amid lush grass
and foliage, as green a spot as any in green England.
[Sidenote: MR. LA THANGUE'S HOME]
On the eastern side of the town (with a diversion into Queen Elizabeth's
sombre wood-walk) one may come by the side of the river part of the way
to West Lavington, which stands high on a slope facing the Downs, with
pine woods immediately beneath it, perhaps as fair a site as any church
can claim. The grave of Richard Cobden, the Free Trader, a native of
Heyshott, near by, is in the churchyard. Here, in 1850, Henry Edward
Manning, afterwards Cardinal, preached his last sermon for the Church of
England. It is, indeed, Manning country, for besides being curate and
rector of Woollavington with Graffham (four or five miles to the
south-east) from 1833 until his secession, he was for nine years
Archdeacon of Chichester; he married Miss Sargent, daughter of the late
rector and sister of Mrs. Samuel Wilberforce of Woollavington; and while
rector, he rebuilt both churches. Graffham is interesting also as being
the present home of one of the most truthful of living painters, Mr.
Henry La Thangue, whose scenes of peasants at work (in the manner of
Barbizon) and studies of sunlight spattering through the trees are among
the triumphs of modern English art.
[Sidenote: CIDER'S DISAPPEARANCE]
One more village and we will make for the hills. A mile beyond the
eastern gate of Cowdray Park is Lodsworth, still a paradise of apple
orchards, but no longer famous for its cider as once it was. Arthur
Young had the pleasure of tasting some Lodsworth cider of a superior
quality at Lord Egremont's table at the beginning of the last century,
but I doubt if Petworth House honours the beverage to-day. Cider, except
in the cider country, becomes less and less common.
[Illustration: _Cowdray._]
CHAPTER III
FIRST SIGHT OF THE DOWNS
The Sussex hills--Gilbert White's praise--Britons, Romans,
Saxons--Charles the Second's ride through Sussex.
Between Midhurst and Chichester, our next centre, rise the Downs, to a
height of between seven hundred and eight hundred feet. Although we
shall often be crossing them again before we leave the county, I should
like to speak of them a little in this place.
The Downs are the symbol of Sussex. The sea, the Weald, the heather
hills of her great forest district, she shares with other counties, but
the Downs are her own. Wiltshire, Berkshire, Kent and Hampshire, it is
true, have also their turf-covered chalk hills, but the Sussex Downs are
vaster, more remarkable, and more beautiful than these, with more
individuality and charm. At first they have been known to disappoint the
traveller, but one has only to live among them or near them, within the
influence of their varying moods, and they surely conquer. They are the
smoothest things in England, gigantic, rotund, easy; the eye rests upon
their gentle contours and is at peace. They have no sublimity, no
grandeur, only the most spacious repose. Perhaps it is due to this
quality that the Wealden folk, accustomed to be overshadowed by this
unruffled range, are so deliberate in their mental processes and so
averse from speculation or experiment. There is a hypnotism of form: a
rugged peak will alarm the mind where a billowy green undulation will
lull it. The Downs change their complexion, but are never other than
soothing and still: no stress of weather produces in them any of that
sense of fatality that one is conscious of in Westmoreland.
Thunder-clouds empurple the turf and blacken the hangers, but they
cannot break the imperturbable equanimity of the line; rain throws over
the range a gauze veil of added softness; a mist makes them more
wonderful, unreal, romantic; snow brings them to one's doors. At sunrise
they are magical, a background for Malory; at sunset they are the lovely
home of the serenest thoughts, a spectacle for Marcus Aurelius. Their
combes, or hollows, are then filled with purple shadow cast by the
sinking sun, while the summits and shoulders are gold.
[Sidenote: GILBERT WHITE IN SUSSEX]
Gilbert White has an often-quoted passage on these hills:--"Though I
have now travelled the Sussex downs upwards of thirty years, yet I still
investigate that chain of majestic mountains with fresh admiration year
by year, and I think I see new beauties every time I traverse it. This
range, which runs from Chichester eastward as far as East Bourn, is
about sixty miles in length, and is called the South Downs, properly
speaking, only round Lewes. As you pass along you command a noble view
of the wild, or weald, on one hand, and the broad downs and sea on the
other. Mr. Ray used to visit a family [Mr. Courthope, of Danny] just at
the foot of these hills, and was so ravished with the prospect from
Plumpton Plain, near Lewes, that he mentions those scapes in his _Wisdom
of God in the Works of the Creation_ with the utmost satisfaction, and
thinks them equal to anything he had seen in the finest parts of Europe.
For my own part, I think there is somewhat peculiarly sweet and amusing
in the shapely-figured aspect of the chalk hills in preference to those
of stone, which are rugged, broken, abrupt, and shapeless. Perhaps I may
be singular in my opinion, and not so happy as to convey to you the same
idea; but I never contemplate these mountains without thinking I
perceive somewhat analogous to growth in their gentle swellings and
smooth fungus-like protuberances, their fluted sides, and regular
hollows and slopes, that carry at once the air of vegetative dilatation
and expansion:--Or, was there even a time when these immense masses of
calcareous matter were thrown into fermentation by some adventitious
moisture, were raised and leavened into such shapes by some plastic
power; and so made to swell and heave their broad backs into the sky, so
much above the less animated clay of the wild below?"
The Downs have a human and historic as well as scenic interest. On many
of their highest points are the barrows or graves of our British
ancestors, who, could they revisit the glimpses of the moon, would find
little change, for these hills have been less interfered with than any
district within twice the distance from London. The English dislike of
climbing has saved them. They will probably be the last stronghold of
the horse when petrol has ousted him from every other region.
[Sidenote: ROMAN AND SAXON]
After the Briton came the Roman, to whose orderly military mind such a
chain of hills seemed a series of heaven-sent earthworks. Every point in
a favourable position was at once fortified by the legionaries. Standing
upon these ramparts to-day, identical in general configuration in spite
of the intervening centuries, one may imagine one's self a Caesarian
soldier and see in fancy the hinds below running for safety.
After the Romans came the Saxons, who did not, however, use the heights
as their predecessors had. Yet they left even more intimate traces, for,
as I shall show in a later chapter on Sussex dialect, the language of
the Sussex labourer is still largely theirs, the farms themselves often
follow their original Saxon disposition, the field names are unaltered,
and the character of the people is of the yellow-haired parent stock.
Sussex, in many respects, is still Saxon. In a poem by Mr. W. G. Hole is
a stanza which no one that knows Sussex can read without visualising
instantly a Sussex hill-side farm:--
The Saxon lies, too, in his grave where the plough-lands swell;
And he feels with the joy that is Earth's
The Spring with its myriad births;
And he scents as the evening falls
The rich deep breath of the stalls;
And he says, "Still the seasons bring increase and joy to the
world--It is well!"
[Sidenote: THE ESCAPE OF CHARLES II.]
Standing on one of these hills above the Hartings one may remember an
event in English history of more recent date than any of the periods
that we have been recalling--the escape of Charles II in 1651. It was
over these Downs that he passed; and it has been suggested that a
traveller wishing for a picturesque route across the Downs might do well
to follow his course.
According to the best accounts Charles was met, on the evening of
October 13, near Hambledon, in Hampshire (afterwards to be famous as the
cradle of first-class cricket), by Thomas and George Gunter of Racton,
with a leash of greyhounds as if for coursing. The King slept at the
house of Thomas Symonds, Gunter's brother-in-law, in the character of a
Roundhead. The next morning at daybreak, the King, Lord Wilmot and the
two Gunters crossed Broad Halfpenny Down (celebrated by Nyren), and
proceeding by way of Catherington Down, Charlton Down, and Ibsworth
Down, reached Compting Down in Sussex. At Stanstead House Thomas Gunter
left the King, and hurried on to Brighton to arrange for the crossing to
France. The others rode on by way of the hills, with a descent from
Duncton Beacon, until they reached what promised to be the security of
Houghton Forest. There they were panic-stricken nearly to meet Captain
Morley, governor of Arundel Castle, and therefore by no means a King's
man. The King, on being told who it was, replied merrily, "I did not
much like his starched mouchates." This peril avoided, they descended to
Houghton village, where the Arun was crossed, and so to Amberley, where
in Sir John Briscoe's castle the King slept.[1]
[Sidenote: ROUNDHEADS OUTWITTED]
On Amberley Mount the King's horse cast a shoe, necessitating a drop to
one of the Burphams, at Lee Farm, to have the mishap put right.
Ascending the hills again the fugitives held the high track as far as
Steyning. At Bramber they survived a second meeting with Cromwellians,
three or four soldiers of Col. Herbert Morley of Glynde suddenly
appearing, but being satisfied merely to insult them. At Beeding, George
Gunter rode on by way of the lower road to Brighton, while the King and
Lord Wilmot climbed the hill at Horton, crossing by way of White Lot to
Southwick, where, according to one story, in a cottage at the west of
the Green was a hiding-hole in which the King lay until Captain Nicholas
Tattersall of Brighton was ready to embark him for Fecamp. George
Gunter's own story is, however, that the King rode direct to Brighton.
He reached Fecamp on October 16. Two hours after Gunter left Brighton,
"soldiers came thither to search for a tall black man, six feet four
inches high"--to wit, the Merry Monarch.
Such is the bare narrative of Charles' Sussex ride. If the reader would
have it garnished and spiced he should turn to the pages of Ainsworth's
_Ovingdean Grange_, where much that never happened is set forth as
entertainingly (or so I thought when I read it as a boy) as if it were
truth.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] That is the story as the Amberley people like to have it, but
another version makes him ride from Hambledon to Brighton in one day; in
which case he may have avoided Amberley altogether.
CHAPTER IV
CHICHESTER
William Collins--The Smiths of Chichester--Hardham's snuff--C. R.
Leslie's reminiscence--The headless Ravenswood--Chichester
Cathedral--Roman Chichester--Mr. Spershott's recollections--A
warning to swearers--The prettiest alms-house in England.
I have already quoted some lines by Collins on Otway; it is time to come
to Collins himself.
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell--
The perfect ode which opens with these unforgettable lines belongs to
Chichester, for William Collins was born there on Christmas Day, 1721,
and educated there, at the Prebendal school, until he went to
Winchester. William Collins was the son of the Mayor of Chichester, a
hatter, from whom Pope's friend Caryll bought his hats. I have no wish
to tell here the sad story of Collins' life; it is better to remember
that few as are his odes they are all of gold. He died at Chichester in
1759, and was buried in St. Andrew's Church.
With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired;
And, from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And, dashing soft from rocks around
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,
Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.
[Sidenote: GEORGE SMITH'S ECLOGUE]
Collins is Chichester's great poet. She had a very agreeable minor poet,
too, in George Smith, one of the Three Smiths--all artists: William,
born in 1707, painter of portraits and of fruit and flower pieces, and
George and John, born in 1713 and 1717, who painted landscapes,--known
collectively as the Smiths of Chichester. I mention them rather on
account of George Smith's poetical experiments than for the brothers'
fame as artists; but there is such a pleasant flavour in one at least of
his _Pastorals_ that I have copied a portion of it. It is called "The
Country Lovers; or, Isaac and Marget going to Town on a Summer's
Morning." The town is probably Chichester--certainly one in Sussex and
near the Downs. Isaac speaks first:--
Come! Marget, come!--the team is at the gate!
Not ready yet!--you always make me wait!
I omit a certain amount of the dialogue which follows, but at last
Marget exclaims:--
Well, now I'm ready, long I have not staid.
ISAAC.
One kiss before we go, my pretty maid.
MARGET.
Go! don't be foolish, Isaac--get away!
Who loiters now?--I thought I could not stay!
There!--that's enough! why, Isaac, sure you're mad!
ISAAC.
One more, my dearest girl--
MARGET.
Be quiet, lad.
See both my cap and hair are rumpled o'er!
The tying of my beads is got before!
ISAAC.
There let it stay, thy brighter blush to show,
Which shames the cherry-colour'd silken bow.
Thy lips, which seem the scarlet's hue to steal,
Are sweeter than the candy'd lemon peel.
MARGET.
Pray take these chickens for me to the cart;
Dear little creatures, how it grieves my heart
To see them ty'd, that never knew a crime,
And formed so fine a flock at feeding time!
The pretty poem ends with fervid protestations of devotion from Isaac:--
For thee the press with apple-juice shall foam!
For thee the bees shall quit their honey-comb!
For thee the elder's purple fruit shall grow!
For thee the pails with cream shall overflow!
But see yon teams returning from the town,
Wind in the chalky wheel-ruts o'er the down:
We now must haste; for if we longer stay,
They'll meet us ere we leave the narrow way.
Another of Chichester's illustrious sons is Archbishop Juxon, who stood
by the side of Charles I. on the scaffold and bade farewell to him in
the words "You are exchanging from a temporal to an eternal crown--a
good exchange."
[Sidenote: HARDHAM'S SNUFF]
Yet another, of a very different type, is John Hardham. "When they
talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff," wrote Goldsmith of Sir
Joshua Reynolds,
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.
Had it not been for Chichester the great painter might never have had
the second of these consolations, for the only snuff he liked was
Hardham's No. 37, and Hardham was a native of Chichester. Before he
became famous as a tobacconist, Hardham was, by night, a numberer of the
pit for Garrick at Drury Lane. One day he happened to blend Dutch and
rappee and poured the mixture into a drawer labelled 37. Garrick so
liked the pinch of it which he chanced upon, that he introduced a
reference to its merits in some of his comic parts, with the result that
Hardham's little shop in Fleet Street soon became a resort, and no nose
was properly furnished without No. 37. As Colton wrote, in his
_Hypocrisy_:--
A name is all. From Garrick's breath a puff
Of praise gave immortality to snuff;
Since which each connoisseur a transient heaven
Finds in each pinch of Hardham's 37.
The wealth that came to the tobacconist he left to the city of
Chichester to relieve it of certain of its poor rates; and the citizens
still magnify Hardham's name. He died in 1772 and had the good sense to
restrict the expense of his funeral to ten pounds.
[Sidenote: WILKIE'S BUMPS]
Chichester was the scene of a pleasant incident recorded by Leslie in
his _Autobiographical Recollections_. He was staying with Wilkie at
Petworth, the guest of their patron, and the patron of so many other
painters, Lord Egremont, of whom we shall learn more when Petworth is
reached. They all drove over to Chichester after a visit to Goodwood.
Lord Egremont, says Leslie, "had some business to transact at
Chichester; but one of his objects was to show us a young girl, the
daughter of an upholsterer, who was devoted to painting, and considered
to be a genius by her friends. She was not at home; but her mother said
she could soon be found, 'if his lordship would have the goodness to
wait a short time.' The young lady soon appeared, breathless and
exhausted with running. Lord Egremont mentioned our names, and she said,
looking up to Wilkie with an expression of great respect, 'Oh, sir! it
was but yesterday I had your head in my hands.' This puzzled him, as he
did not know she was a phrenologist.
"'And what bumps did you find?' said Lord Egremont.
"'The organ of veneration, very large,' was her answer; and Wilkie,
making her a profound bow, said:
"'Madam, I have a great veneration for genius.'
"She showed us an unfinished picture from _The Bride of Lammermoor_. The
figure of Lucy Ashton was completed, and, she told us, was the portrait
of a young friend of hers; but Ravenswood was without a head, and this
she explained by saying, 'there are no handsome men in Chichester. But,'
she continued, her countenance brightening, 'the Tenth are expected here
soon.'" (The Tenth was noted for its handsome officers.)
Leslie does not carry the story farther. Whether poor Ravenswood ever
gained his head; whether if he did so it was a military one, or, as a
last resource, a Chichester one; and where the picture, if completed,
now is, I do not know, nor have I succeeded in discovering any more of
the young lady. But passing through the streets of the town I was
conscious of the absence of the Tenth.
Chichester is a perfect example of an English rural capital, thronged on
market days with tilt carts, each bringing a farmer or farmer's wife,
and rich in those well-stored ironmongers' shops that one never sees
elsewhere. But it is more than this: it is also a cathedral town, with
the ever present sense of domination by the cloth even when the cloth is
not visible. Chichester has its roughs and its public houses (Mr. Hudson
in his _Nature in Downland_ gives them a caustic chapter); it also has
its race-week every July, and barracks within hail; yet it is always a
cathedral town. Whatever noise may be in the air you know in your heart
that quietude is its true characteristic. One might say that above the
loudest street cries you are continually conscious of the silence of the
close.
[Illustration: _Chichester Cathedral._]
[Sidenote: CHICHESTER CATHEDRAL]
Chichester's cathedral is not among the most beautiful or the most
interesting, but there is none cooler. It dates from the eleventh
century and contains specimens of almost every kind of church
architecture; but the spire is comparatively new, having been built in
1866 to take the place of its predecessor, which suddenly dropped like
an extinguisher five years before. Seen from the Channel it rises, a
friendly landmark (white or gray, according to the clouds), and while
walking on the Downs above or on the plain around, one is frequently
pleased to catch an unexpected glimpse of its tapering beauty. I have
heard it said that Chichester is the only English cathedral that is
visible at sea.
Within, the cathedral is disappointing, offering one neither richness on
the one hand nor the charm of pure severity on the other. A cathedral
must either be plain or coloured, and Chichester comes short of both
ideals; it has no colour and no purity. Its proportions are, however,
exquisite, and it is impossible to remain here long without passing
under the spell of the stone. Yet had it, one feels, only radiance, how
much finer it would be.
For the completest contrast to the vastness of the cathedral one may
cross into North Street and enter the portal of the toy church of St.
Olave, which dates from the 14th century, and is remarkable, not only
for its minuteness, but as being one of the churches of Chichester
which, in my experience, is not normally locked and barred.
[Sidenote: ROMAN CHICHESTER]
That Chichester was built by the Romans in the geometrical Roman way you
may see as you look down from the Bell Tower upon its four main
streets--north, south, east and west--east becoming Stane-street and
running direct to London. Chichester then was Regnum. On the departure
of the Romans, Cissa, son of Ella, took possession, and the name was
changed to Cissa's Ceastre, hence Chichester. Remnants of the old walls
still stand; and a path has been made on the portion running from North
Street down to West Gate.
[Sidenote: A CLERICAL STRONGHOLD]
More attractive, because more human, than the cathedral itself are its
precincts: the long resounding cloisters, the still, discreet lanes
populous with clerics, and most of all that little terrace of
ecclesiastical residences parallel with South Street, in the shadow of
the mighty fane, covered with creeping greenness, from wistaria to
ampelopsis, with minute windows, inviolable front doors and trim front
gardens, which (like all similar settlements) remind one of alms-houses
carried out to the highest power. Surely the best of places in which to
edit Horace afresh or find new meanings in St. Augustine.
[Illustration: _Chichester Cross._]
There is a tendency for the cathedral to absorb all the attention of the
traveller, but Chichester has other beauties, including the Market
Cross, which is a mere child of stone, dating only from the reign of
Henry VIII.; St. Mary's Hospital in North Street; and the remains of the
monastery of the Grey Friars in the Priory Park. Young Chichester now
plays cricket where of old the monks caught fish and performed their
duties. It was probably on the mound that their Calvary stood; the last
time I climbed it was to watch Bonnor, the Australian giant, practising
in the nets below, too many years ago.
Like all cathedral towns Chichester has beautiful gardens, as one may
see from the campanile. There are no lawns like the lawns of Bishops,
Deans, and Colleges; and few flower beds more luxuriantly stocked.
Chichester also has a number of grave, solid houses, such as Miss
Austen's characters might have lived in; at least one superb specimen of
the art of Sir Christopher Wren, a masterpiece of substantial red brick;
and a noble inn, the Dolphin, where one dines in the Assembly room, a
relic of the good times before inns became hotels.
[Sidenote: SPERSHOTT'S RECOLLECTIONS]
We have some glimpses of old Chichester in the reminiscences (about
1720-1730) of James Spershott, a Chichester Baptist Elder, who died in
1789, aged eighty. I quote a passage here and there from his paper of
recollections printed in the Sussex Archaeological Collections:--
"Spinning of Household Linnen was in use in most Families, also making
their own Bread, and likewise their own Household Physick. No Tea, but
much Industrey and good Cheer. The Bacon racks were loaded with Bacon,
for little Porke was made in these times. The farmers' Wifes and
Daughters were plain in Dress, and made no such gay figures in our
Market as nowadays. At Christmas, the whole Constellation of Pattypans
which adorn'd their Chimney fronts were taken down. The Spit, the Pot,
the Oven, were all in use together; the Evenings spent in Jollity, and
their Glass Guns smoking Top'd the Tumbler with the froth of Good
October, till most of them were slain or wounded, and the Prince of
Orange, and Queen Ann's Marlborough, could no longer be resounded...."
[Sidenote: THE DEATH OF A SWEARER]
Here is Mr. Spershott's account of a Chichester calamity:--"Jno. Page,
Esq., native of this city, coming from London to Stand Candidate Here, a
great number of voters went on Horseback to meet him. Among the rest Mr.
Joshua Lover, a noted School Master, a sober man in the general but of
flighty Passions. As he was setting out, one of his Scollers, Patty
Smith (afterwards my Spouse) asked him for a Coppy, and in haste he
wrote the following:--
Extreames beget Extreames, Extreames avoid
Extreames without Extreames are not Enjoyed.
"He set off in High Carrier, and turning down Rooks's Hill before the
Sqr., rideing like a madman To and fro, forward and backward Hallooing
among the Company, the Horse at full speed fell with him and kill'd him.
A Caution to the flighty and unsteady; and a verification of his Coppy."
Again: "Robt. Madlock, a most Prophane Swarer, being Employ'd in
Cleaning the outside of the Steeple," fell, owing to a breaking rope,
and soon after died. Mr. Spershott adds: "A warning to Swarers." Another
entry states: "In my younger years there were many very large corpulent
Persons in the City, both of Men and Women. I could now recite by name
between twenty and thirty, the great part of that number so Prodigious
that like other animals Thoroughly fatted, they could hardly move
about."
One of Chichester's epitaphs runs thus:--
Here lies a true soldier, whom all must applaud;
Much hardship he suffer'd at home and abroad;
But the hardest engagement he ever was in,
Was the battle of Self in the conquest of Sin.
[Sidenote: THE PERFECT ALMSHOUSE]
I have left until the last the prettiest thing in this city of comely
streets and houses--St. Mary's Hospital, at the end of Lion Street (out
of North Street): the quaintest almshouse in the world. The building
stands back, behind the ordinary houses, and is gained by a passage and
a courtyard. You then enter what seems to be a church, for at the far
end is an altar beneath an unmistakably ecclesiastical window. But when
the first feeling of surprise has passed, you discover that there is
only a small chancel at the east end of the building, on either side of
which are little dwellings. Each of these is occupied by a nice little
old woman, who has two rooms, very minute and cosy, with a little supply
of faggots close at hand, and all the dignity of a householder, although
the occupant only of an infinitesimal toy house within a house. How do
they agree, one wonders, these little old ladies of a touchy age under
their great roof?
Different accounts are given of the origin of St. Mary's Hospital. Mr.
Lower says that it was founded in 1229 for a chaplain and thirteen
bedesmen. In 1562 a warden and five inmates were the prescribed
occupants. Now there are eight sets of rooms, each with its demure
tenant, all of whom troop into the little chapel at fixed hours. Mrs.
Evans, sacristan, who does the honours, would tell me nothing as to the
process of selection by which she and the seven other occupants came to
be living there; all that she could say was that she was very happy to
be a Hospitaller, and that by no possibility could one of the little
domiciles ever fall to me.
[Illustration: _The Ruined Nave of Boxgrove._]
CHAPTER V
CHICHESTER AND THE HILLS.
Goodwood--The art of being a park--The Cenotaph of Lord
Darnley--Boxgrove--Cowper at Eastham--The Charlton Hunt--A famous
run--Huntsman and Saint--Present day hunting in Sussex--Mr. Knox's
delectable day with his gun--Kingly Bottom--The best white
violets--A demon bowler--Two epitaphs.
Chichester may have a cathedral and a history, but nine out of ten
strangers know of it only as a station for Goodwood race-course; towards
which, in that hot week at the end of July, hundreds of carriages toil
by the steep road that skirts the Duke of Richmond and Gordon's park.
Goodwood Park gives me little pleasure. I miss the deer; and when the
first park that one ever knew was Buxted, with its moving antlers above
the brake fern, one almost is compelled to withhold the word park from
any enclosure without them. It is impossible to lose the feeling that
the right place for cattle--even for Alderneys--is the meadow. Cows in a
park are a poor makeshift; parks are for deer. To my eyes Goodwood
House has a chilling exterior; the road to the hill-top is steep and
lengthy; and when one has climbed it and crossed the summit wood, it is
to come upon the last thing that one wishes to find in the heart of the
country, among rolling Downs, sacred to hawks and solitude--a Grand
Stand and the railings of a race-course! Race-courses are for the
outskirts of towns, as at Brighton and Lewes; or for hills that have no
mystery and no magic, like the heights of Epsom; or for such mockeries
of parks as Sandown and Kempton. The good park has many deer and no
race-course.
And yet Goodwood is superb, for it has some of the finest trees in
Sussex within its walls, including the survivors of a thousand cedars of
Lebanon planted a hundred and fifty years ago; and with every step
higher one unfolds a wider view of the Channel and the plain. Best of
these prospects is, perhaps, that gained from Carne's seat, as the
Belvedere to the left of the road to the racecourse is called; its name
deriving from an old servant of the family, whose wooden hut was
situated here when Carne died, and whose name and fame were thus
perpetuated. The stones of the building were in part those of old Hove
church, near Brighton, then lately demolished.
[Sidenote: THE CENOTAPH OF DARNLEY]
In Goodwood House, which is shown on regular days, are fine Vandycks and
Lelys, relics of the two Charles', and above all the fascinatingly
absorbing "Cenotaph of Lord Darnley," a series of scenes in the life of
that ill-fated husband. It may be said that among all the treasures of
Sussex there is nothing quite so interesting as this.
[Illustration: _Boxgrove Priory Church._]
[Sidenote: BOXGROVE]
Leaving Chichester by East Street (or Stane Street, the old Roman road
to London) one comes first to West Hampnett, famous as the birthplace,
in 1792, of Frederick William Lillywhite, the "Nonpareil" bowler, whom
we shall meet again at Brighton. A mile and a half beyond is Halnaker,
midway between two ruins, those of Halnaker House to the north and
Boxgrove Priory to the south. Of the remains of Halnaker House, a Tudor
mansion, once the home of the De la Warrs, little may now be seen; but
Boxgrove is still very beautiful, as Mr. Griggs' drawings prove. The
Priory dates from the reign of Henry I., when it was founded very
modestly for three Benedictine monks, a number which steadily grew.
Seven Henries later came its downfall, and now nothing remains but some
exquisite Norman arches and a few less perfect fragments. Boxgrove
church is an object of pilgrimage for antiquaries and architects, the
vaulting being peculiarly interesting. At the Halnaker Arms in 1902 was
a landlady whom few cooks could teach anything in the matter of pastry.
[Sidenote: THE EARTHAM DILLETANTE]
The next village on Stane Street, or rather a little south of it, about
two miles beyond Halnaker, is Eartham; which brings to mind William
Hayley, the friend and biographer of Cowper and the author of _The
Triumphs of Temper_, perhaps the least read of any book that once was
popular. Hayley succeeded his father as squire of Eartham; here he
entertained Cowper and other friends; here Romney painted. When need
came for retrenchment, Hayley let Eartham to Huskisson, the statesman,
and moved to Felpham, on the coast, where we shall meet with him again.
Cowper's occupations upon this charming Sussex hillside are recorded in
Hayley's account of the visit: "_Homer_ was not the immediate object of
our attention while Cowper resided at Eartham. The morning hours that we
could bestow on books were chiefly devoted to a complete revisal and
correction of all the translations, which my friend had finished, from
the Latin and Italian poetry of Milton; and we generally amused
ourselves after dinner in forming together a rapid metrical version of
Andreini's _Adamo_. But the constant care which the delicate health of
Mrs. Unwin required rendered it impossible for us to be very assiduous
in study, and perhaps the best of all studies was to promote and share
that most singular and most exemplary tenderness of attention with which
Cowper incessantly laboured to counteract every infirmity, bodily and
mental, with which sickness and age had conspired to load this
interesting guardian of his afflicted life.... The air of the south
infused a little portion of fresh strength into her shattered frame, and
to give it all possible efficacy, the boy, whom I have mentioned, and a
young associate and fellow student of his, employed themselves regularly
twice a day in drawing this venerable cripple in a commodious
garden-chair round the airy hill of Eartham. To Cowper and to me it was
a very pleasing spectacle to see the benevolent vivacity of blooming
youth thus continually labouring for the ease, health, and amusement of
disabled age."
[Sidenote: COWPER IN SUSSEX]
The poet and Mrs. Unwin, after much trepidation and doubt, had left
Weston Underwood on August 1, 1792; they slept at Barnet the first
night, Ripley the next, and were at Eartham by ten o'clock on the third.
They stayed till September. Cowper describes Hayley's estate as one of
the most delightful pleasure grounds in the world. "I had no conception
that a poet could be the owner of such a paradise, and his house is as
elegant as his scenes are charming." The poet, apart from his rapid
treatment of _Adamo_, did not succeed independently in attaining to
Hayley's fluency among these surroundings. "I am in truth so
unaccountably local in the use of my pen," he wrote to Lady Hesketh,
"that, like the man in the fable, who could leap well nowhere but at
Rhodes, I seem incapable of writing at all except at Weston." Hence the
only piece that he composed in our county was the epitaph on Fop, a dog
belonging to Lady Throckmorton. But while he was at Eartham Romney drew
his portrait in crayons.
[Illustration: _Boxgrove from the South._]
Cowper always looked back upon his visit with pleasure, but, as he
remarked, the genius of Weston Underwood suited him better--"It has an
air of snug concealment in which a disposition like mine feels itself
peculiarly gratified; whereas now I see from every window woods like
forests and hills like mountains--a wilderness, in short, that rather
increases my natural melancholy.... Accordingly, I have not looked out
for a house in Sussex, nor shall."
The simplest road from Chichester to the Downs is the railway. The
little train climbs laboriously to Singleton, and then descends to
Cocking and Midhurst. By leaving it at Singleton one is quickly in the
heart of this vast district of wooded hills, sometimes wholly forested,
sometimes, as in West Dean park, curiously studded with circular clumps
of trees.
[Sidenote: THE CHARLTON HUNT]
The most interesting spot to the east of the line is Charlton, once so
famous among sporting men, but now, alas, unknown. For Charlton was of
old a southern Melton Mowbray, the very centre of the aristocratic
hunting county. The Charlton Hunt had two palmy periods: before the Duke
of Monmouth's rebellion, and after the accession of William III.
Monmouth and Lord Grey kept two packs, the Master being Squire Roper.
With the fall of Monmouth Roper fled to France, to hunt at Chantilly,
but on the accession of William III. he returned to Sussex, the hounds
resumed their old condition, and the Charlton pack became the most
famous in the world. On the death of Mr. Roper--in the hunting field, in
1715, at the age of eighty-four--the Duke of Bolton took the Mastership,
which he held until the charms of Miss Fenton the actress (the Polly
Peachum of _The Beggars' Opera_) lured him to the tents of the women.
Then came the glorious reign of the second Duke of Richmond, when sport
with the Charlton was at its height. The Charlton Hunt declined upon his
death, in 1750, became known as the Goodwood Hunt, and wholly ceased to
be at the beginning of the last century.
The crowning glory of the Charlton Hunt was the run of Friday, January
26, 1738, which is thus described in an old manuscript:--
[Sidenote: A FAMOUS RUN]
A FULL AND IMPARTIAL ACCOUNT OF THE REMARKABLE CHASE AT CHARLTON,
ON FRIDAY, 26TH JANUARY, 1738.
It has long been a matter of controversy in the hunting world to
what particular country or set of men the superiority belonged.
Prejudices and partiality have the greatest share in their
disputes, and every society their proper champion to assert the
pre-eminence and bring home the trophy to their own country. Even
Richmond Park has the Dymoke. But on Friday, the 26th of January,
1738, there was a decisive engagement on the plains of Sussex,
which, after ten hours' struggle, has settled all further debate
and given the brush to the gentlemen of Charlton.
PRESENT IN THE MORNING:--
The Duke of Richmond, Duchess of Richmond, Duke of St Alban's, the
Lord Viscount Harcourt, the Lord Henry Beauclerk, the Lord
Ossulstone, Sir Harry Liddell, Brigadier Henry Hawley, Ralph
Jennison, master of His Majesty's Buck Hounds, Edward Pauncefort,
Esq., William Farquhar, Esq., Cornet Philip Honywood, Richard
Biddulph, Esq., Charles Biddulph, Esq., Mr. St. Paul, Mr. Johnson,
Mr. Peerman, of Chichester; Mr. Thomson, Tom Johnson, Billy Ives,
Yeoman Pricker to His Majesty's Hounds; David Briggs and Nim Ives,
Whippers-in.
At a quarter before eight in the morning the fox was found in
Eastdean Wood, and ran an hour in that cover; then into the Forest,
up to Puntice Coppice through Heringdean to the Marlows, up to
Coney Coppice, back to the Marlows, to the Forest West Gate, over
the fields to Nightingale Bottom, to Cobden's at Draught, up his
Pine Pit Hanger, where His Grace of St. Alban's got a fall; through
My Lady Lewknor's Puttocks, and missed the earth; through Westdean
Forest to the corner of Collar Down (where Lord Harcourt blew his
first horse), crossed the Hackney-place down the length of Coney
Coppice, through the Marlows to Heringdean, into the Forest and
Puntice Coppice, Eastdean Wood, through the Lower Teglease across
by Cocking Course down between Graffham and Woolavington, through
Mr. Orme's Park and Paddock over the Heath to Fielder's Furzes, to
the Harlands, Selham, Ambersham, through Todham Furzes, over Todham
Heath, almost to Cowdray Park, there turned to the limekiln at the
end of Cocking Causeway, through Cocking Park and Furzes; there
crossed the road and up the hills between Bepton and Cocking. Here
the unfortunate Lord Harcourt's second horse felt the effects of
long legs and a sudden steep; the best thing that belonged to him
was his saddle, which My Lord had secured; but, by bleeding and
Geneva (contrary to Act of Parliament) he recovered, and with some
difficulty was got home. Here Mr. Farquhar's humanity claims your
regard, who kindly sympathised with My Lord in his misfortunes, and
had not power to go beyond him. At the bottom of Cocking Warren
the hounds turned to the left across the road by the barn near
Heringdean, then took the side near to the north-gate of the Forest
(Here General Hawley thought it prudent to change his horse for a
true-blue that staid up the hills). Billy Ives likewise took a
horse of Sir Harry Liddell's, went quite through the Forest and run
the foil through Nightingale Bottom to Cobden at Draught, up his
Pine Pit Hanger to My Lady Lewknor's Puttocks, through every mews
she went in the morning; went through the Warren above Westdean
(where we dropt Sir Harry Liddell) down to Benderton Farm (here
Lord Harry sank), through Goodwood Park (here the Duke of Richmond
chose to send three lame horses back to Charlton, and took Saucy
Face and Sir William, that were luckily at Goodwood; from thence,
at a distance, Lord Harry was seen driving his horse before him to
Charlton). The hounds went out at the upper end of the Park over
Strettington-road by Sealy Coppice (where His Grace of Richmond got
a summerset), through Halnaker Park over Halnaker Hill to Seabeach
Farm (here the Master of the Stag Hounds, Cornet Honywood, Tom
Johnson, and Nim Ives were thoroughly satisfied), up Long Down,
through Eartham Common fields and Kemp's High Wood (here Billy Ives
tried his second horse and took Sir William, by which the Duke of
St. Alban's had no great coat, so returned to Charlton). From
Kemp's High Wood the hounds took away through Gunworth Warren,
Kemp's Rough Piece, over Slindon Down to Madehurst Parsonage (where
Billy came in with them), over Poor Down up to Madehurst, then down
to Houghton Forest, where His Grace of Richmond, General Hawley,
and Mr. Pauncefort came in (the latter to little purpose, for,
beyond the Ruel Hill, neither Mr. Pauncefort nor his horse Tinker
cared to go, so wisely returned to his impatient friends), up the
Ruel Hill, left Sherwood on the right hand, crossed Ofham Hill to
Southwood, from thence to South Stoke to the wall of Arundel River,
where the glorious 23 hounds put an end to the campaign, and killed
an old bitch fox, ten minutes before six. Billy Ives, His Grace of
Richmond, and General Hawley were the only persons in at the death,
to the immortal honour of 17 stone, and at least as many campaigns.
[Sidenote: JOHNSON THE EXEMPLAR]
In Singleton church is a record of the Charlton Hunt in the shape of a
memorial to one of the huntsmen, the moral of which seems to be that we
must all be huntsmen too:--
"Near this place lies interred
THOMAS JOHNSON,
who departed this life at Charlton,
December 20th, 1774.
"From his early inclination to fox-hounds, he soon became an experienced
huntsman. His knowledge in the profession, wherein he had no superior,
and hardly an equal, joined to his honesty in every other particular,
recommended him to the service, and gained him the approbation, of
several of the nobility and gentry. Among these were the Lord CONWAY,
Earl of CARDIGAN, the Lord GOWER, the Duke of MARLBOROUGH, the Hon. M.
SPENCER. The last master whom he served, and in whose service he died,
was CHARLES, Duke of RICHMOND, LENNOX, and AUBIGNY, who erected this
monument in memory of a good and faithful servant, as a reward to the
deceased, and an incitement to the living.
'Go, and do thou likewise.' (St. Luke, x. 37).
'Here Johnson lies; what human can deny
Old Honest Tom the tribute of a sigh?
Deaf is that ear which caught the opening sound;
Dumb that tongue which cheer'd the hills around.
Unpleasing truth: Death hunts us from our birth
In view, and men, like foxes, take to earth.'"
[Sidenote: THE SUSSEX PACKS]
A few words on the packs of Sussex at the present time may be
interesting in this connection. Chief is the Southdown Fox Hounds, a
very fine, fast pack brought to a high state of perfection by the late
master, the Hon. Charles Brand. They hunt the open and hill country
between the Adur and Cuckmere, between Haywards Heath and the sea. In
the north are the Crawley and Horsham Fox Hounds, which have large
woodlands, high hedges, and some stiff ploughed soil to their less easy
lot. The hounds are bigger and heavier than the South Downers. Smaller
packs are Lord Leconfield's Fox Hounds, which have the Charlton country;
the Eastbourne Fox Hounds, to which the East Sussex Fox Hounds allotted
a share of the western part of their country east of the Cuckmere; and
the Burstow and Eridge packs. Of Harriers, the best are the Brighton
Harriers, so long hunted by Mr. Hugh Gorringe of Kingston-by-Sea, a very
smart pack lately covering the ground between the Adur and Falmer, and
now adding the Brookside Harriers' country to their own domain, the two
packs having been amalgamated. In the east are the Bexhill Harriers and
the Hailsham Harriers; and in the west the South Coast Harriers, for the
Chichester country. Sussex, in addition to possessing the Warnham
Staghounds, is much raided by the Surrey Staghounds. The Crowhurst Otter
Hounds also visit the Sussex streams now and then. Foot Beagles may be
numerous but I know only of the Brighton pack.
[Sidenote: MR. KNOX'S SETTER]
And here let me give Mr. Knox's description of a day's shooting, in the
gentlemanly way, on the Sussex Downs, following, in his _Ornithological
Rambles_, upon some remarks on the battue. "How different is the pursuit
of the pheasant with the aid of spaniels in the thick covers of the
weald, or tracking him with a single setter among some of the wilder
portions of the forest range!--intently observing your dog and
anticipating the wily artifices of some old cock, with spurs as long as
a dragon's, who will sometimes lead you for a mile through bog, brake,
fern, and heather, before the sudden drop of your staunch companion, and
a rigidity in all his limbs, satisfy you that you have at last compelled
the bird to squat under that wide holly-bush, from whence you kick him
up, and feel some little exultation as you bring him down with a
snap-shot, having only caught a glimpse of him through the evergreen
boughs, as he endeavoured to escape by a rapid flight at the opposite
side of the tree.
[Sidenote: A SUSSEX BAG]
"And then the woodcock-shooting in November--I must take you back once
more to my favourite Downs. With the first full moon during that month,
especially if the wind be easterly or the weather calm, arrive flights
of woodcocks, which drop in the covers, and are dispersed among the
bushy valleys, and even over the heathery summits of the hills. If it
should happen to be a propitious year for beech-mast--the great
attraction to pheasants on the Downs, as is the acorn in the weald--you
may procure partridges, pheasants, hares, and rabbits in perhaps equal
proportions, with half a dozen woodcocks to crown the bag.
[Illustration: _East Lavant._]
"The extensive, undulating commons and heaths dotted with broken patches
of Scotch firs and hollies on the ferruginous sand north of the Downs,
afford--where the manorial rights are enforced--still greater variety of
sport. On this wild ground, accompanied by my spaniels and an old
retriever, and attended only by one man, to carry the game, I have
enjoyed as good sport as mortal need desire on this side of the Tweed.
Here is a rough sketch of a morning's work.
[Sidenote: PARTRIDGE AND WOODCOCK]
"Commencing operations by walking across a turnip-field, two or three
coveys spring wildly from the farther end, and fly, as I expect, to the
adjoining common, where they are marked down on a brow thickly clothed
with furze. Marching towards them with spaniels at heel, up jumps a hare
under my nose, then another, then a rabbit. I reload rapidly, and on
reaching the gorse 'put in' the dogs. Whirr! there goes a partridge! The
spaniels drop to the report of my gun, but the fluttering wings of the
dying bird rouse two of his neighbours before I am ready, and away they
fly, screaming loudly. The remainder are flushed in detail and I succeed
in securing the greater part of them. Now for the next covey. They were
marked down in that little hollow where the heather is longer than
usual--a beautiful spot! But before I reach it, up they all spring in an
unexpected quarter; that cunning old patriarch at their head had
cleverly called them together to a naked part of the hill from whence he
could observe my manoeuvres, and a random shot sent after him with
hearty good will proved totally ineffective.
"Now the spaniels are worming through the thick sedges on either side of
the brook which intersects the moor, and by their bustling anxiety it is
easy to see that game is afoot. Keeping well in front of them, I am just
in time for a satisfactory right and left at two cock pheasants, which
they had hunted down to the very edge of the water before they could
persuade them to take wing. Now for that little alder coppice at the
further end of the marshy swamp. Hark to that whipping sound so
different from the rush of the rising pheasant or the drumming flight of
the partridge! I cannot see the bird, but I know it is a woodcock. This
must be one of his favourite haunts, for I perceive the tracks of his
feet and the perforations of his bill in every direction on the black
mud around. Mark! again. A second is sprung, and as he flits between the
naked alders a snap-shot stops his career. I now emerge at the farther
end, just where the trees are thinner than elsewhere. A wisp of snipes
utter their well-known cry and scud over the heath; one of these is
secured. The rest fly towards a little pool of dark water lying at a
considerable distance from the common, a well-known rendezvous for
those birds. Cautiously approaching, down wind, I reach the margin. Up
springs a snipe; but just as my finger is on the trigger, and when too
late to alter my intention, a duck and mallard rise from among the
rushes and wheel round my head. One barrel is fortunately left, and the
drake comes tumbling to the ground. Three or four pheasants, another
couple of woodcocks, a few more snipes, a teal or two, and half a dozen
rabbits picked up at various intervals, complete the day's sport, and I
return home, better pleased with myself and my dogs than if we had
compassed the destruction of all the hares in the county, or assisted at
the immolation of a perfect hecatomb of pheasants."
[Sidenote: KINGLY BOTTOM]
Kingly Bottom is the most interesting spot to the west of Singleton. One
may reach it either through Chilgrove, or by walking back towards
Chichester as far as Binderton House, turning then to the right and
walking due west for a couple of miles. Report says that the yews in
Kingly Bottom, or Kingly Vale, mark a victory of Chichester men over a
party of marauding Danes in 900, and that the dead were buried beneath
the barrows on the hill. The story ought to be true. The vale is
remarkable for its grove of yews, some of enormous girth, which extends
along the bottom to the foot of the escarpment. The charge that might be
brought against Sussex, that it lacks sombre scenery and the elements of
dark romance, that its character is too open and transparent, would be
urged to no purpose in Kingly Vale, which, always grave and silent, is
transformed at dusk into a sinister and fantastic forest, a home for
witchcraft and unquiet spirits.
So it seems to me; but among the verses of Bernard Barton, the Quaker
poet and the friend of Charles Lamb, I lately chanced upon a sonnet
"written on hearing it remarked that the scenery [of Kingly Bottom] was
too gloomy to be termed beautiful; and that it was also associated with
dolorous recollections of Druidical sacrifices." In this poem Barton
takes a surprisingly novel line. "Nay, nay, it is not gloomy" he begins,
and the end is thus:--
Nor fancy Druid rites have left a stain
Upon its gentle beauties:--loiter there
In a calm summer night, confess how fair
Its moonlight charms, and thou wilt learn how vain
And transitory Superstition's reign
Over a spot which gladsome thoughts may share.
The ordinary person, not a poet, would, I fear, prefer to think of
Kingly Bottom's Druidical past.
[Sidenote: THE MARDEN VIOLETS]
The last time I was in Kingly Bottom--it was in April--after leaving the
barrows on the summit of the Bow Hill, above the Vale, I walked by
devious ways to East Marden, between banks thick with the whitest and
sweetest of sweet white violets. East Marden, however, has no inn and is
therefore not the best friend of the traveller; but it has the most
modest and least ecclesiastical-looking church in the world, and by
seeking it out I learned two secrets: the finest place for white violets
and the finest place to keep a horse. There is no riding country to
excel this hill district between Singleton and the Hampshire border.
At the neighbouring village of Stoughton, whither I meant to walk (since
an inn is there) was born, in 1783, the terrible George Brown--Brown of
Brighton--the fast bowler, whose arm was as thick as an ordinary man's
thigh. He had two long stops, one of whom padded his chest with straw. A
long stop once held his coat before one of Brown's balls, but the ball
went through it and killed a dog on the other side. Brown could throw a
4-1/2 oz. ball 137 yards, and he was the father of seventeen children.
He died at Sompting in 1857.
[Sidenote: CHURCHYARD POETRY]
Of Racton, on the Hampshire border, and its association with Charles
II., I have already spoken. Below, it is Westbourne, a small border
village in whose churchyard are two pleasing epitaphs. Of Jane, wife of
Thomas Curtis, who died in 1719, it is written:--
She was like a lily fresh and green,
Soon cast down and no more seen.
and of John Cook:
Pope said an honest man
Is the noblest work of God.
If Pope's assertion be from error clear,
One of God's noblest works lies buried here.
[Illustration: _Bosham._]
CHAPTER VI
CHICHESTER AND THE PLAIN
Bosham and history--An expensive pun--The Bosham bells--Chidham
wheat--The Manhood peninsula--Selsey's adders--Selsey Bill--St.
Wilfrid and the Sussex heathen--Pagham Harbour in its palmy
days--Bognor--Felpham's great rider--Mr. Hayley and Mrs. Opie--An
epitaph and a poem--A fairy's funeral--William Blake in Sussex--The
trial of a traitor.
On leaving Chichester West Street becomes the Portsmouth Road and passes
through Fishbourne, a pleasant but dusty village. A mile or so beyond,
and a little to the south, is Bosham, on one of the several arms of
Chichester Harbour, once of some importance but now chiefly mud. Bosham
is the most interesting village in what may be called the Selsey
peninsula. Yet how has its glory diminished! What is now a quiet abode
of fishermen and the tarrying-place of yachtsmen and artists (there are
few Royal Academy exhibitions without the spire of Bosham church) has
been in its time a very factory of history. Vespasian's camp was hard
by, and it is possible that certain Roman remains that have been found
here were once part of his palace. Bosham claims to be the scene of
Canute's encounter with the encroaching tide; which may be the case,
although one has always thought of the king rebuking his flatterers
rather by the margin of the ocean itself than inland at an estuary's
edge. But beyond question Canute had a palace here, and his daughter was
buried in the church.
[Sidenote: A COSTLY PUN]
Earl Godwin, father of Harold, last of the Saxons, dwelt here also. "Da
mihi basium"--give me a kiss--he is fabled to have said to Archbishop
Aethelnoth, and on receiving it to have taken the salute as acquiescence
in the request--"Da mihi Bosham": probably the earliest and also the
most expensive recorded example in England of this particular form of
humour.
It was from Bosham that Harold sailed on that visit to the Duke of
Normandy which resulted in the battle of Hastings. In the Bayeux
tapestry he may be seen riding to Bosham with his company, and also
putting up prayers for the success of his mission. Of this success we
shall see more when we come to Battle. Bosham furthermore claims Hubert
of Bosham, the author of the _Book of Becket's Martyrdom_, who was with
Saint Thomas of Canterbury when the assassins stabbed him to the death.
The church is of great age; it is even claimed that the tower is the
original Saxon. The circumstance that in the representation of the
edifice in the Bayeux tapestry there is no tower has been urged against
this theory, although architectural realism in embroidery has never been
very noticeable. The bells (it is told) were once carried off in a
Danish raid; but they brought their captors no luck--rather the reverse,
since they so weighed upon the ship that she sank. When the present
bells ring, the ancient submerged peal is said to ring also in sympathy
at the bottom of the Channel--a pretty habit, which would suggest that
bell metal is happily and wisely superior to changes of religion, were
it not explained by the unromantic principles of acoustics.
A heavy pole, known as the staff of Bevis of Southampton (and Arundel),
was of old kept in Bosham church.
At high water Bosham is the fair abode of peace. When every straggling
arm of the harbour is brimming full, when their still surfaces reflect
the sky with a brighter light, and the fishing boats ride erect, Bosham
is serenely beautiful and restful. But at low tide she is a slut: the
withdrawing floods lay bare vast tracts of mud; the ships heel over into
attitudes disreputably oblique; stagnation reigns.
[Sidenote: CHIDHAM WHEAT]
Chidham, by Bosham, is widely famous for its wheat. Chidham White, or
Hedge, wheat was first produced a little more than a century ago by Mr.
Woods, a farmer. He noticed one afternoon (probably on a Sunday, when
farmers are most noticing) an unfamiliar patch of wheat growing in a
hedge. It contained thirty ears, in which were fourteen hundred corns.
Mr. Woods carefully saved it and sowed it. The crop was eight pounds and
a half. These he sowed, and the crop was forty eight gallons. Thus it
multiplied, until the time came to distribute it to other farmers at a
high price. The cultivation of Chidham wheat by Mr. Woods at one side of
the county, synchronised with the breeding of the best Southdown sheep
by John Ellman at the other, as we shall see later.
South of Chichester stretches the Manhood peninsula, of which Selsey is
the principal town: the part of Sussex most neglected by the traveller.
In a county of hills the stranger is not attracted by a district that
might almost have been hewn out of Holland. But the ornithologist knows
its value, and in a world increasingly bustling and progressive there is
a curious fascination in so remote and deliberate a region, over which,
even in the finest weather and during the busiest harvest, a suggestion
of desolation broods. Nothing, one feels, can ever introduce Success
into this plain, and so thinking, one is at peace.
[Sidenote: THE MONOTONY OF MANHOOD]
A tramway between Chichester and Selsey has to some extent opened up the
east side of the peninsula, but the west is still remote and will
probably remain so. The country is, however, not interesting: a dead
level of dusty road and grass or arable land, broken only by hedges,
dykes, white cottages, and the many homesteads within their ramparts of
wind-swept elms. Wheat and oats are the prevailing crops, still for the
most part cut and bound by hand. Of the villages in the centre of the
peninsula Sidlesham is the most considerable, with its handsome square
church tower and its huge red tide-mill, now silent and weather-worn,
standing mournfully at the head of the dry harbour of Pagham, whose
waters once turned its wheels. On the west, on the shores of the Bosham
estuary, or Chichester Harbour, are the sleepy amphibious villages of
Appledram, famous once for its salt and its smugglers, Birdham, and
Earnley. Let no one be tempted to take a direct line across the fields
from Selsey to Earnley, for dykes and canals must effectually stop him.
Indeed, cross country walking in this part of the country is practically
an impossibility, except by continuous deviations and doublings. In
attempting one day to reach Earnley from Selsey in this way (after
giving up the beach in despair), I came upon several adders, and I once
found one crossing a road absolutely in Selsey.
Selsey is a straggling white village, or town, over populous with
visitors in summer, empty, save for its regular inhabitants, in winter.
The oldest and truest part of Selsey is a fishing village on the east
shore of the Bill, a little settlement of tarred tenements and lobster
pots. Selsey church, now on the confines of the town, once stood a mile
or more away; whither it was removed (the stones being numbered) and,
like Temple Bar, again set up. The chancel was, however, not removed,
but left desolate in the fields.
Selsey Bill is a tongue of land projecting into a shallow sea. A
lighthouse being useless to warn strange mariners of the sandbanks of
this district, a lightship known as the Owers flashes its rays far out
in the channel. The sea has played curious pranks on the Selsey coast.
Beneath the beach and a large tract of the sea now lies what was once,
four hundred years ago, a park of deer, which in its most prosperous day
extended for miles. The shallow water covering it is still called the
park by the fishermen, who drop their nets where the bucks and does of
Selsey were wont to graze.
[Sidenote: SUSSEX REPELS ST. WILFRID]
But the sea has obliterated more than the pasturage of the deer; a mile
distant from the present shore stood the first monastery erected in
Sussex after Wilfrid's conversion of the South Saxons to Christianity.
Although Saint Wilfrid eventually found a home in Sussex and worked hard
among its people, his first attempt to bring Christianity to the county
was, according to his friend Edda's _Vita Wilfridi_, ill-starred. I
quote the story:--
"A great gale blowing from the South-east, the swelling waves threw them
on the unknown coast of the South Saxons. The sea too left the ship and
men, and retreating from the land and leaving the shore uncovered,
retired into the depths of the abyss.
"And the heathen, coming with a great army, intended to seize the ship,
to divide the spoil of money, to take them captives forthwith, and to
put to the sword those who resisted. To whom our great bishop spoke
gently and peaceably, offering much money, wishing to redeem their
souls.
"But they with stern and cruel hearts like Pharaoh would not let the
people of the Lord go, saying proudly that, 'All that the sea threw on
the land became as much theirs as their own property.'
"And the idolatrous chief priest of the heathen, standing on a lofty
mound, strove like Balaam to curse the people of God, and to bind their
hands by his magic arts.
"Then one of the bishop's companions hurled, like David, a stone,
blessed by all the people of God, which struck the cursing magician in
the forehead and pierced his brain, when an unexpected death surprised,
as it did Goliath, falling back a corpse in sandy places.
"The heathen therefore preparing to fight, vainly attacked the people of
God. But the Lord fought for the few, even as Gideon by the command of
the Lord, with 300 warriors slew at one attack 12,000 of the Midianites.
"And so the comrades of our holy bishop, well-armed and brave, though
few in number (they were 120 men, the number of the years of Moses),
determined and agreed that none should turn his back in flight from the
other, but would either win death with glory, or life with victory (for
both alike are easy to the Lord). So S. Wilfrith with his clerk fell on
his knees, and lifting his hands to Heaven again sought help from the
Lord. For, as Moses triumphed when Hur and Aaron supported his hands, by
frequently imploring the protection of the Lord, when Joshua the son of
Nun was fighting with the people of God against Amalek, thus these few
Christians after thrice repulsing the fierce and untamed heathen, routed
them with great slaughter, with a loss strange to say of only five on
their side.
"And their great priest (Wilfrith) prayed to the Lord his God, who
immediately ordered the sea to return a full hour before its wont. So
that when the heathen, on the arrival of their king, were preparing for
a fourth attack with all their forces, the rising sea covered with its
waves the whole of the shore, and floated the ship, which sailed into
the deep. But, greatly glorified by God, and returning Him thanks, with
a South wind they reached Sandwich, a harbour of safety."
[Sidenote: JOHN WESLEY'S TESTIMONY]
The Sussex people, it would seem, do not take kindly to missionaries,
for John Wesley records that he had less success in this county than in
all England.
Between Selsey and Bognor lies Pagham, famous in the pages of Knox's
_Ornithological Rambles_, but otherwise unknown. Of the lost glories of
Pagham, which was once a harbour, but is now dry, let Mr. Knox
speak:--"Here in the dead long summer days, when not a breath of air
has been stirring, have I frequently remained for hours, stretched on
the hot shingle, and gazed at the osprey as he soared aloft, or watched
the little islands of mud at the turn of the tide, as each gradually
rose from the receding waters, and was successively taken possession of
by flocks of sandpipers and ring-dotterels, after various
circumvolutions on the part of each detachment, now simultaneously
presenting their snowy breasts to the sunshine, now suddenly turning
their dusky backs, so that the dazzled eye lost sight of them from the
contrast; while the prolonged cry of the titterel,[2] and the melancholy
note of the peewit from the distant swamp, have mingled with the scream
of the tern and the taunting laugh of the gull.
[Sidenote: PAGHAM'S LOST GLORIES]
"Here have I watched the oyster-catcher, as he flew from point to point,
and cautiously waded into the shallow water; and the patient heron, that
pattern of a fisherman, as with retracted neck, and eyes fixed on
vacancy, he has stood for hours without a single snap, motionless as a
statue. Here, too, have I pursued the guillemot, or craftily endeavoured
to cut off the retreat of the diver, by mooring my boat across the
narrow passage through which alone he could return to the open sea
without having recourse to his reluctant wings. Nor can I forget how
often, during the Siberian winter of 1838, when 'a whole gale,' as the
sailors have it, has been blowing from the north-east, I used to take up
my position on the long and narrow ridge of shingle which separated this
paradise from the raging waves without, and sheltered behind a hillock
of seaweed, with my long duck-gun and a trusty double, or half buried in
a hole in the sand, I used to watch the legions of water-birds as they
neared the shore, and dropped distrustfully among the breakers, at a
distance from the desired haven, until, gaining confidence from
accession of numbers, some of the bolder spirits--the pioneers of the
army--would flap their wings, rise from the white waves, and make for
the calm water. Here they come! I can see the pied golden-eye
pre-eminent among the advancing party; now the pochard, with his
copper-coloured head and neck, may be distinguished from the darker
scaup-duck; already the finger is on the trigger, when, perhaps, they
suddenly veer to the right and left, far beyond the reach of my longest
barrel or, it may be, come swishing overhead, and leave a companion or
two struggling on the shingle or floating on the shallow waters of the
harbour."
Pagham Harbour is now reclaimed, and where once was mud, or, at high
tide, shallow water, is rank grass and thistles. One ship that seems to
have waited a little too long before making for the open sea again, now
lies high and dry, a forlorn hulk. Pagham church is among the airiest
that I know, with a shingle spire, the counterpart of Bosham's on the
other side of the peninsula.
The walk from Pagham to Bognor, along the sand, is uninspiring and not
too easy, for the sand can be very soft. About a mile west of Bognor one
is driven inland, just after passing as perfect an example of the simple
yet luxurious seaside home as I remember to have seen: all on one floor,
thatched, shaded by trees, surrounded by its garden and facing the
Channel.
[Sidenote: EARLY BOGNOR]
Among the unattractive types of town few are more dismal than the
watering-place _manque_. Bognor must, I fear, come under this heading.
Its reputation, such as it is, was originally made by Princess
Charlotte, daughter of George III., who found the air recuperative, and
who was probably not unwilling to lend her prestige to a resort, as her
brother George was doing at Brighton, and her sister Amelia had done at
Worthing. But before the Princess Charlotte Sir Richard Hotham, the
hatter, had come, determined at any cost to make the town popular. One
of his methods was to rename it Hothampton. His efforts were, however,
only moderately successful, and he died in 1799, leaving to what
Horsfield calls "his astonished heirs" only _L_8,000 out of a great
fortune. The name Hothampton soon vanished.
The local authorities of Bognor seem to be keenly alive to the value of
enterprise, for their walls are covered with instructions as to what may
or may not be done in the interests of cleanliness and popularity; a new
sea-wall has been built; receptacles for waste paper continually
confront one, and deck chairs at twopence for three hours are
practically unavoidable. And yet Bognor remains a dull place, once the
visitor has left his beach abode--tent or bathing box, whichever it may
be. It seems to be a town without resources. But it has the interest,
denied one in more fashionable watering-places, of presenting old and
new Bognor at the same moment; not that old Bognor is really old, but it
is instructive to see the kind of crescent which was considered the last
word in architectural enterprise when our great-grandmothers were young
and would take the sea air.
[Sidenote: A POET ON HORSEBACK]
From Bognor it is a mere step to Felpham, a village less than a mile to
the east. Whether or not one goes there to-day is a matter of taste; but
a hundred years ago to omit a visit was to confess one's-self a boor,
for William Hayley, the poet and friend of genius, lived there, and his
castellated stucco house became a shrine. At that day it seems to have
been no uncommon sight for the visitor to Bognor to be refreshed by the
spectacle of the poet falling from his horse. According to his
biographer, Cowper's Johnny of Norfolk, Hayley descended to earth almost
as often as Alice's White Knight, partly from the high spirit of his
steed, and partly from a habit which he never abandoned of wearing
military spurs and carrying an umbrella. The memoir of the poet contains
this agreeable passage: "The Editor was once riding gently by his side,
on the stony beach of Bognor, when the wind suddenly reversed his
umbrella as he unfolded it; his horse, with a single but desperate
plunge, pitched him on his head in an instant.... On another occasion,
on the same visit ... he was tost into the air on the Downs, at the
precise moment when an interested friend whom they had just left, being
apprehensive of what would happen, was anxiously viewing him from his
window, through a telescope." Those who look through telescopes are
rarely so fortunate. It is odd that Hayley, a delicate and heavy man
suffering from hip-disease, should have taken so little hurt. Although
he had a covered passage for horse exercise in the grounds of his villa,
no amount of practice seems to have improved his seat. This covered way
has been removed, but a mulberry tree planted by Hayley still
flourishes.
Whenever Hayley was ill he became an object of intense interest to
visitors at Bognor. Binsted's Library in the town exhibited a daily
bulletin; and in 1819 the Prince and Princess of Saxe-Coburg called upon
him, while the Princess of Hesse Homburg on her return sent a
prescription from Germany.
[Sidenote: HAYLEY HOUR BY HOUR]
Mrs. Opie, the novelist, who stayed with Mr. Hayley every summer, and
also served as a magnet to devout sojourners at Bognor, has left an
account of the poet's habits which is vastly more entertaining than his
poetry. He rose at six or earlier and at once composed some devotional
verse. At breakfast, he read to Mrs. Opie; afterwards Mrs. Opie read to
him. At eleven they drank coffee, and before he dressed for dinner, a
very temperate meal, Mrs. Opie sang. After dinner there was more reading
aloud, the matter being either manuscript compositions of Mr. Hayley's,
or modern publications. Mr. Hayley took cocoa and Mrs. Opie tea, and
afterwards Mrs. Opie read aloud or sang. At nine, the servants came to
prayers, which were original compositions of Mr. Hayley's, read by him
in a very impressive manner, and before bed, Mrs. Opie sang one of Mr.
Hayley's hymns.
Hayley's grave is at Felpham, and his epitaph by Mrs. Opie may be read
by the industrious on the wall of the church. Among the many epitaphs on
his neighbours by Hayley himself, who had a special knack of mortuary
verse, is this on a Felpham blacksmith:--
My sledge and hammer lie reclined;
My bellows too have lost their wind;
My fire's extinct; my forge decay'd,
And in the dust my vice is laid;
My coal is spent, my iron gone;
The nails are driven--my work is done.
The last verses that Hayley wrote have more charm and delicacy than
perhaps anything else among his works:
Ye gentle birds that perch aloof,
And smooth your pinions on my roof,
Preparing for departure hence
Ere winter's angry threats commence;
Like you, my soul would smooth her plume
For longer flights beyond the tomb.
May God, by whom is seen and heard
Departing man and wandering bird,
In mercy mark us for his own,
And guide us to the land unknown.
[Sidenote: A FAIRY'S FUNERAL]
But it is not Hayley that gives its glory to Felpham. The glory of
Felpham is that William Blake was happy there for nearly three years. It
was at Felpham that he saw the fairy's funeral. "Did you ever see a
fairy's funeral, ma'am?" he asked a visitor. "Never, sir!" "I have!... I
was walking alone in my garden; there was great stillness among the
branches and flowers, and more than common sweetness in the air; I heard
a low and pleasant sound, and I knew not whence it came. At last I saw
the broad leaf of a flower move, and underneath I saw a procession of
creatures, of the size and colour of green and grey grasshoppers,
bearing a body laid out on a rose-leaf, which they buried with songs,
and then disappeared. It was a fairy's funeral!"
Blake settled at Felpham to be near Hayley, for whom he had a number of
commissions to execute. He engraved illustrations to Hayley's works,
and painted eighteen heads for Hayley's library--among them,
Shakespeare, Homer, and Hayley himself; but all have vanished, the
present owner knows not where.
In some verses which Blake addressed to Anna Flaxman, the wife of the
sculptor, in September, 1800, a few days before moving from London to
the Sussex coast, he says:--
This song to the flower of Flaxman's joy;
To the blossom of hope, for a sweet decoy;
Do all that you can and all that you may
To entice him to Felpham and far away.
Away to sweet Felpham, for Heaven is there;
The ladder of Angels descends through the air,
On the turret its spiral does softly descend,
Through the village then winds, at my cot it does end.
[Sidenote: THE PROPHETS AT FELPHAM]
Blake's house still stands, a retired, thatched cottage, facing the sea,
but some distance from it. In a letter to Flaxman a little later, he
says, "Felpham is a sweet place for study, because it is more spiritual
than London. Heaven opens here on all sides its golden gates; the
windows are not obstructed by vapours; voices of celestial inhabitants
are more distinctly heard, their forms more distinctly seen; and my
cottage is also a shadow of their houses." Beside the sea Blake communed
with the spirits of Dante and Homer, Milton and the Hebrew Prophets.
Blake's sojourn at Felpham ended in 1803. A grotesque and annoying
incident marred its close, the story of which, as told by the poet in a
letter to Mr. Butler, certainly belongs to the history of Sussex. It
should, however, first be stated that an ex-soldier in the Royal
Dragoons, named John Scholfield, had accused Blake of uttering seditious
words. The letter runs:--"His enmity arises from my having turned him
out of my garden, into which he was invited as an assistant by a
gardener at work therein, without my knowledge that he was so invited. I
desired him, as politely as possible, to go out of the garden; he made
me an impertinent answer. I insisted on his leaving the garden; he
refused. I still persisted in desiring his departure. He then threatened
to knock out my eyes, with many abominable imprecations, and with some
contempt for my person; it affronted my foolish pride. I therefore took
him by the elbows, and pushed him before me until I had got him out.
There I intended to have left him; but he, turning about, put himself
into a posture of defiance, threatening and swearing at me. I, perhaps
foolishly and perhaps not, stepped out at the gate, and, putting aside
his blows, took him again by the elbows, and, keeping his back to me,
pushed him forward down the road about fifty yards--he all the while
endeavouring to turn round and strike me, and raging and cursing, which
drew out several neighbours. At length when I had got him to where he
was quartered, which was very quickly done, we were met at the gate by
the master of the house--the Fox Inn--(who is the proprietor of my
cottage) and his wife and daughter, and the man's comrade, and several
other people. My landlord compelled the soldiers to go indoors, after
many abusive threats against me and my wife from the two soldiers; but
not one word of threat on account of sedition was uttered at that time."
[Sidenote: WILLIAM BLAKE, TRAITOR]
As a result, Blake was haled before the magistrates and committed for
trial. The trial was held in the Guildhall at Chichester, on January
11th, 1804. Hayley, in spite of having been thrown from his horse on a
flint with, says Gilchrist, Blake's biographer, "more than usual
violence" was in attendance to swear to the poet's character, and
Cowper's friend Rose, a clever barrister, had been retained. According
to the report in the County paper, "William Blake, an engraver at
Felpham, was tried on a charge exhibited against him by two soldiers for
having uttered seditious and treasonable expressions, such as 'd--n the
king, d--n all his subjects, d--n his soldiers, they are all slaves;
when Buonaparte comes, it will be cut-throat for cut-throat, and the
weakest must go to the wall; I will help him; &c., &c.'" Blake
electrified the court by calling out "False!" in the midst of the
military evidence, the invented character of which was, however, so
obvious that an acquittal resulted. "In defiance of all decency," the
spectators cheered, and Hayley carried off the sturdy Republican (as he
was at heart) to Mid Lavant, to sup at Mrs. Poole's.
[Sidenote: BLAKE'S FLASHING EYE]
Mr. Gilchrist found an old fellow who had been present at the trial,
drawn thither by the promise of seeing the great man of the
neighbourhood, Mr. Hayley. All that he could remember was Blake's
flashing eye.
The Fox Inn, by the way, is still as it was, but the custom, I fancy,
goes more to the Thatched House, which adds to the charms of refreshment
a museum containing such treasures as a petrified cocoanut, the skeleton
of a lobster twenty-eight years old, and a representation of Moses in
the bulrushes.
A third and fourth great man, of a different type both from Hayley and
Blake, met at Felpham in 1819. One was Cyril Jackson, Dean of Christ
Church, who, lying on his death-bed in the Manor House, was visited by
the other--his old pupil, the First Gentleman in Europe.
FOOTNOTE:
[2] The Sussex provincial name for the whimbrel.
[Illustration: _Arundel._]
CHAPTER VII
ARUNDEL AND NEIGHBOURHOOD
A feudal town--Castles ruined and habitable--The old religion and
the new--Bevis of Southampton--Lord Thurlow lays an egg--A noble
park--A song in praise of Sussex--The father of cricket.
Seen from the river or from the east side of the Arun valley, Arundel is
the most imposing town in Sussex. Many are larger, many are equally old,
or older; but none wears so unusual and interesting an air, not even
Lewes among her Downs.
Arundel clings to the side of a shaggy hill above the Arun. Castle,
cathedral, church--these are Arundel; the town itself is secondary,
subordinate, feudal. The castle is what one likes a castle to be--a mass
of battlemented stone, with a keep, a gateway, and a history, and yet
more habitable than ever. So many of the rich make no effort to live in
their ancestral halls; and what might be a home, carrying on the
tradition of ages, is so often only a mere show, that to find an
historic castle like Arundel still lived in is very gratifying. In
Sussex alone are several half-ruined houses that the builders could
quickly make habitable once more. Arundel Castle, in spite of time and
the sieges of 1102, 1139, and 1643, is both comfortable and modern;
Arundel still depends for her life upon the complaisance of her
over-lord.
[Sidenote: MODERN MEDIEVALISM]
I know of no town with so low a pulse as this precipitous little
settlement under the shadow of Rome and the Duke. In spite of picnic
parties in the park, in spite of anglers from London, in spite of the
railway in the valley, Arundel is still medieval and curiously foreign.
On a very hot day, as one climbs the hill to the cathedral, one might be
in old France, and certainly in the Middle Ages.
Time's revenges have had their play in this town. Although the church is
still bravely of the establishment, half of it is closed to the Anglican
visitor (the chancel having been adjudged the private property of the
Dukes of Norfolk), and the once dominating position of the edifice has
been impaired by the proximity of the new Roman Catholic church of St.
Philip Neri, which the present Duke has been building these many years.
Within, it is finished, a very charming and delicate feat in stone; but
the spire has yet to come. The old Irish soldier, humorous and
bemedalled, who keeps watch and ward over the fane, is not the least of
its merits.
Although the chancel of the parish church has been closed, permission to
enter may occasionally be obtained. It is rich in family tombs of great
interest and beauty, including that of the nineteenth Earl of Arundel,
the patron of William Caxton. In the siege of Arundel Castle in 1643,
the soldiers of the parliamentarians, under Sir William Waller, fired
their cannon from the church tower. They also turned the church into a
barracks, and injured much stone work beyond repair. A fire beacon
blazed of old on the spire to serve as a mark for vessels entering
Littlehampton harbour.
Bevis of Southampton, the giant who, when he visited the Isle of Wight,
waded thither, was a warder at Arundel Castle; where he ate a whole ox
every week with bread and mustard, and drank two hogsheads of beer.
Hence "Bevis Tower." His sword Morglay is still to be seen in the
armoury of the castle; his bones lie beneath a mound in the park; and
the town was named after his horse. So runs a pretty story, which is,
however, demolished with the ruthlessness that comes so easily to the
antiquary and philologist. Bevis Tower, science declares, was named
probably after another Bevis--there was one at the Battle of Lewes, who
took prisoner Richard, King of the Romans, and was knighted for
it--while Arundel is a corruption of "hirondelle," a swallow. Mr. Lower
mentions that in recent times in Sussex "Swallow" was a common name in
stables, even for heavy dray horses. But before accepting finally the
swallow theory, we ought to hear what Fuller has to say:--"Some will
have it so named from _Arundel_ the _Horse_ of _Beavoice_, the great
_Champion_. I confess it is not without precedence in _Antiquity_ for
_Places_ to take _names_ from _Horses_, meeting with the _Promontory
Bucephalus_ in Peloponesus, where some report the _Horse_ of _Alexander_
buried, and Bellonius will have it for the same cause called _Cavalla_
at this day. But this _Castle_ was so called long before that _Imaginary
Horse_ was _foled_, who cannot be fancied elder than his Master
Beavoice, flourishing after the Conquest, long before which _Arundel_
was so called from the river _Arund_ running hard by it."
[Sidenote: LORD THURLOW LAYS AN EGG]
The owls that once multiplied in the keep have now disappeared. They
were established there a hundred years or so ago by the eleventh Duke,
and certain of them were known by the names of public men. "Please, your
Grace, Lord Thurlow has laid an egg," is an historic speech handed down
by tradition. Lord Thurlow, the owl in question, died at a great age in
1859.
[Illustration: _The Arun at North Stoke._]
[Sidenote: ARUNDEL PARK]
To walk through Arundel Park is to receive a vivid impression of the
size and richness of our little isolated England. Two or three great
towns could be hidden in it unknown to each other. Valley succeeds to
valley; new herds of deer come into sight at almost every turn; as far
as the eye can see the grass hills roll away. Those accustomed to parks
whose deer are always huddled close and whose wall is never distant, are
bewildered by the vastness of this enclosure. Yet one has also the
feeling that such magnificence is right: to so lovely a word as Arundel,
to the Premier Duke and Hereditary Earl Marshal of England, should
fittingly fall this far-spreading and comely pleasaunce. Had Arundel
Park been small and empty of deer what a blunder it would be.
Walking west of Arundel through the vast Rewell Wood, we come suddenly
upon Punch-bowl Green, and open a great green valley, dominated by the
white facade of Dale Park House, below Madehurst, one of the most remote
of Sussex villages.
[Sidenote: SLINDON]
By keeping due west for another mile Slindon is reached. This village is
one of the Sussex backwaters, as one might say. It lies on no road that
any one ever travels except for the purpose of going to Slindon or
coming from it; and those that perform either of these actions are few.
Yet all who have not seen Slindon are by so much the poorer, for Slindon
House is nobly Elizabethan, with fine pictures and hiding-places, and
Slindon beeches are among the aristocracy of trees. And here I should
like to quote a Sussex poem of haunting wistfulness and charm, which was
written by Mr. Hilaire Belloc, who once walked to Rome and is an old
dweller at Slindon:--
[Sidenote: A SOUTH COUNTRY SONG]
THE SOUTH COUNTRY.
When I am living in the Midlands,
That are sodden and unkind,
I light my lamp in the evening:
My work is left behind;
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind.
The great hills of the South Country
They stand along the sea:
And it's there walking in the high woods
That I could wish to be,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Walking along with me.
The men that live in North England
I saw them for a day:
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,
Their skies are fast and grey:
From their castle-walls a man may see
The mountains far away.
The men that live in West England
They see the Severn strong,
A-rolling on rough water brown
Light aspen leaves along.
They have the secret of the Rocks,
And the oldest kind of song.
But the men that live in the South Country
Are the kindest and most wise,
They get their laughter from the loud surf,
And the faith in their happy eyes
Comes surely from our Sister the Spring,
When over the sea she flies;
The violets suddenly bloom at her feet,
She blesses us with surprise.
I never get between the pines,
But I smell the Sussex air,
Nor I never come on a belt of sand
But my home is there;
And along the sky the line of the Downs
So noble and so bare.
A lost thing could I never find,
Nor a broken thing mend;
And I fear I shall be all alone
When I get towards the end.
Who will there be to comfort me,
Or who will be my friend?
I will gather and carefully make my friends
Of the men of the Sussex Weald,
They watch the stars from silent folds,
They stiffly plough the field.
By them and the God of the South Country
My poor soul shall be healed.
If I ever become a rich man,
Or if ever I grow to be old,
I will build a house with deep thatch
To shelter me from the cold,
And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
And the story of Sussex told.
I will hold my house in the high wood
Within a walk of the sea,
And the men who were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me.
[Sidenote: NEWLAND, NYREN, AND SILVER BILLY]
Richard Newland, the father of serious cricket, came from this parish.
He was born in 1718, or thereabouts, and in 1745 he made 88 for England
against Kent. He was left-handed, and the finest bat ever seen in those
days. He taught Richard Nyren, of Hambledon, all the skill and judgment
that that noble general possessed; Nyren communicated his knowledge to
the Hambledon eleven, and the game was made. An interest in historical
veracity compels me to add that William Beldham--Silver Billy--talking
to Mr. Pycroft, discounted some of Nyren's praise. "Cricket," he said,
"was played in Sussex very early, before my day at least [he was born in
1766]; but that there was no good play I know by this, that Richard
Newland, of Slindon in Sussex, as you say, sir, taught old Richard
Nyren, and that no Sussex man could be found to play Newland. Now a
second-rate man of our parish beat Newland easily; so you may judge what
the rest of Sussex then were." But this is disregarding the
characteristic uncertainty of the game.
If one would spend a day far from mankind, on high ground, there is no
better way than to walk from Arundel through Houghton Forest (where, as
we have seen, Charles II. avoided the Governor) to Cocking.
CHAPTER VIII
LITTLEHAMPTON
A children's paradise--Wind-swept villages--Cary and
Coleridge--Sussex folklore--Climping--Richard Jefferies and
Sussex--John Taylor the Water Poet--Highdown Hill--A miller in love
with death--A digression on mills and millers--Treason at
Patching--A wife in a thousand--A Sussex truffler--The Palmer
triplets.
Littlehampton is favoured in having both sea and river. It also has
lawns between the houses and the beach, as at Dieppe, and is as nearly a
children's paradise as exists. The sea at low tide recedes almost beyond
the reach of the ordinary paddler, which is as it should be except for
those that would swim. A harbour, a pier, a lighthouse, a windmill--all
these are within a few yards of each other. On the neighbouring beach,
springing from the stones, you find the yellow-horned poppy, beautiful
both in flower and leaf, and the delicate tamarisk makes a natural hedge
parallel with the sea, to Worthing on the one side, and to Bognor on the
other.
The little villages in the flats behind the eastern tamarisk
hedge--Rustington, Preston, Ferring, are, in summer, veritable sun
traps, with their white walls dazzling in radiance. Such trees as grow
about here all bow to the north-east, bent to that posture by the
prevailing south-west winds. A Sussex man, on the hills or south of
them, lost at night, has but to ascertain the outline of a tree, and he
may get his bearings. If he cannot see so much as that he has but to
feel the bark for lichen, which grows on the north east, or lee, side.
It was at Littlehampton in September, 1817, that Coleridge met Cary, the
translator of Dante. Cary was walking on the beach, reciting Homer to
his son. Up came a noticeable man with large grey eyes: "Sir, yours is a
face I should know. I am Samuel Taylor Coleridge."
[Sidenote: A CHURCH DUEL]
The county paper for February 27, 1796, has this paragraph: "On Monday
last a duel was fought betwixt Mr. R----n and Lieut. B----y, both of
Littlehampton, in a field near that place, which, after the discharge of
each a pistol, terminated without bloodshed. The dispute, we understand,
originated about a pew in the parish church."
A local proverb says that if you eat winkles in March it is as good as a
dose of medicine; which reminds me that Sussex has many wise sayings of
its own. Here is a piece of Sussex counsel in connection with the
roaring month:--
If from fleas you would be free,
On the first of March let all your windows closed be.
I quote two other rhymes:--
If you would wish your bees to thrive
Gold must be paid for every hive;
For when they're bought with other money
There will be neither swarm nor honey.
The first butterfly you see,
Cut off his head across your knee,
Bury the head under a stone
And a lot of money will be your own.
On Whit Sunday the devout Sussex man eats roast veal and gooseberry
pudding. A Sussex child born on Sunday can neither be hanged nor
drowned.
[Sidenote: "CLIMPING FOR PERFECTION"]
West of Littlehampton is an architectural treasure, in the shape of
Climping church, which no one should miss. The way is over the ferry and
along the road to the first signboard, when one strikes northward
towards Ford, and comes suddenly upon this squat and solid fane. A Saxon
church stood here, built by the Prioress of Leominster, before the
Conquest: to Roger de Montgomerie was the manor given by the Conqueror,
as part of the earldom of Arundel and Chichester, together with
Atherington manor, much of which is now, like Selsey's park, under the
Channel. De Montgomerie gave Climping manor to the nuns of Almanesches,
by whom the present Norman fortress-tower (with walls 4-1/4 feet thick)
was added, and in 1253 John de Climping, the vicar, rebuilt the
remainder. The church is thus six and a half centuries old, and parts of
it are older. "Bosham, for antiquity; Boxgrove, for beauty; and
Climping, for perfection" is the dictum of an antiquary quoted by the
present vicar in a little pamphlet-history of his parish. As regards the
Norman doorway, at any rate, he is right: there is nothing in Sussex to
excel that; while in general architectural attraction the building is of
the richest. It is also a curiously homely and ingratiating church.
One of the new windows, representing St. Paul, has a peculiar interest,
as the vicar tells us:--"St. Paul was a prisoner at Rome shortly after
Caractacus, the British Chief, whose daughter, Claudia, married Pudens,
both friends of the Apostle (2 Tim. iv. 21). Pudens afterwards commanded
the Roman soldiers stationed at Regnum (Chichester), and if St. Paul
came to Britain, at Claudia's request (as ancient writers testify), he
certainly would visit Sussex. How close this brings us here in Sussex to
the Bible story!"
At Baylies Court, now a farmhouse, the Benedictine monks of Seez, also
proteges of Robert de Montgomerie, had their chapel, remains of which
are still to be seen.
Climping, which otherwise lives its own life, is the resort of golfers
(who to the vicar's regret play all Sunday and turn Easter Day into "a
Heathen Festival") and of the sportsmen of the Sussex Coursing Club, who
find that the terrified Climping hare gives satisfaction beyond most in
the county.
Of Ford, north of Climping, there is nothing to say, except that popular
rumour has it that its minute and uninteresting church (the antithesis
of Climping) was found one day by accident in a bed of nettles.
[Sidenote: JEFFERIES IN SUSSEX]
A good eastern walk from Littlehampton takes one by the sea to Goring,
and then inland over Highdown Hill to Angmering, and so to Littlehampton
again or to Arundel, our present centre. Goring touches literature in
two places. The great house was built by Sir Bysshe Shelley, grandfather
of the poet; and in the village died, in 1887, Richard Jefferies, author
of _The Story of My Heart_, after a life of ill-health spent in the
service of nature. Many beautiful and sympathetic descriptions of Sussex
are scattered about in Jefferies' books of essays, notably, "To
Brighton," "The South Down Shepherd," and "The Breeze on Beachy Head" in
_Nature near London_; "Clematis Lane," "Nature near Brighton," "Sea, Sky
and Down," and "January in the Sussex Woods" in _The Life of the
Fields_; "Sunny Brighton" in _The Open Air_, and "The Country-Side,
Sussex" and "Buckhurst Park" in _Field and Hedgerow_. Jefferies had a
way of blending experiences and concealing the names of places, which
makes it difficult to know exactly what part of Sussex he is describing;
but I think I could lead anyone to Clematis Lane. I might, by the way,
have remarked of South Harting that the luxuriance of the clematis in
its hedges is unsurpassed.
John Taylor, the water poet, has a doggerel narrative entitled "A New
Discovery by Sea with a Wherry from London to Salisbury," 1623, wherein
he mentions a woful night with fleas at Goring, and pens a couplet
worthy to take a place with the famous description of a similar
visitation in _Eothen_:--
Who in their fury nip'd and skip'd so hotly,
That all our skins were almost turned to motley.
[Sidenote: JOHN TAYLOR AND THE CONSTABLE]
Taylor gives us in the same record a pleasant picture of the Sussex
constable in 1623:--
The night before a Constable there came,
Who asked my trade, my dwelling, and my name,
My businesse, and a troupe of questions more,
And wherefore we did land vpon that shore?
To whom I fram'd my answers true and fit,
(According to his plenteous want of wit)
But were my words all true or if I ly'd
With neither I could get him satisfi'd.
He ask'd if we were Pyrats? We said No,
(_As if we had we would haue told him so_)
He said that Lords sometimes would enterprise
T' escape and leaue the Kingdome in disguise:
But I assur'd him on my honest word
That I was no disguised Knight or Lord.
He told me then that I must goe sixe miles
T' a Justice there, Sir John or else Sir Giles:
I told him I was lothe to goe so farre,
And he told me he would my journey barre.
Thus what with Fleas and with the seuerall prates
Of th' officer, and his _Ass_-sociats
We arose to goe, but Fortune bade us stay:
The Constable had stolne our oares away,
And borne them thence a quarter of a mile
Quite through a Lane beyond a gate and stile;
And hid them there to hinder my depart,
For which I wish'd him hang'd with all my heart.
A plowman (for us) found our Oares againe,
Within a field well fil'd with Barley Graine.
Then madly, gladly, out to sea we thrust,
'Gainst windes and stormes, and many a churlish Gust,
By _Kingston_ Chappelle and by _Rushington_,
By _Little-Hampton_ and by _Middleton_.
[Sidenote: THE MILLER AND SWEET DEATH]
Highdown, above Goring, is a good hill in itself, conical in shape, as a
hill should be according to the exacting ideas of childhood, with a
sweeping view of the coast and the Channel; but its fame as a resort of
holiday makers comes less from its position and height than from the
circumstance that John Oliver is buried upon it. John Oliver was the
miller of Highdown Hill. When not grinding corn he seems to have busied
himself with thoughts upon the necessary end of all things, to such an
extent that his meditations on the subject gradually became a mania.
His coffin was made while he was still a young man, and it remained
under his bed until its time was ripe, fitted--to bring it to a point of
preparedness unusual even with the Chinese, those masters of
anticipatory obsequies--with wheels, which the miller, I doubt not,
regularly oiled. John Oliver did not stop there. Having his coffin
comfortably at hand, he proceeded to erect his tomb. This was built in
1766, with tedious verses upon it from the miller's pen; while in an
alcove near the tomb was a mechanical arrangement of death's-heads which
might keep the miller's thoughts from straying, when, as with Dr.
Johnson's philosopher, cheerfulness would creep in.
The miller lived in the company of his coffin, his tomb, and his
_mementi mori_, until 1793, when at the age of eighty-four his hopes
were realised. Those who love death die old.
Between two and three thousand persons attended the funeral; no one was
permitted to wear any but gay clothes; and the funeral sermon was read
by a little girl of twelve, from the text, Micah vii. 8, 9.
[Sidenote: A DIGRESSION ON MILLS]
The mill of John Oliver has vanished, nothing but a depression in the
turf now indicating where its foundations stood. Too many Sussex
windmills have disappeared. Clayton still has her twain, landmarks for
many miles--I have seen them on exceptionally clear days from the
Kentish hills--and other windmills are scattered over the county; but
many more than now exist have ceased to be, victims of the power of
steam. There is probably no contrast aesthetically more to the
disadvantage of the modern substitute than that of the steam mill of
to-day with the windmill of yesterday. The steam mill is always ugly,
always dusty, always noisy, usually in a town. The windmill stands high
and white, a thing of life and radiance and delicate beauty, surrounded
by grass, in communion with the heavens. Such noise as it has is
elemental, justifiable, like a ship's cordage in a gale. No one would
paint a steam mill; a picture with a windmill can hardly be a failure.
Constable, who knew everything about the magic of windmills, painted
several in Sussex--one even at Brighton.
Brighton now has but one mill. There used to be many: one in the West
Hill road, a comelier landmark than the stucco Congregational tower that
has taken its place close by and serves as the town's sentinel from
almost every point of approach. In 1797 a miller near Brighton
anticipated American enterprise by moving his mill bodily to a place two
miles distant by the help of eighty oxen.
Another weakness of steam mills is that they are apparently without
millers--at least there is no unmistakable dominating presence in a
white hat, to whom one can confidently apply the definite article, as in
the mill on the hill. Millers' men there are in plenty, but the miller
is lacking. This is because steam mills belong to companies. Thus, with
the passing of the windmill we lose also the miller, that notable figure
in English life and tradition; always jolly, if the old songs are true;
often eccentric, as the story of John Oliver has shown; and usually a
character, as becomes one who lives by the four winds, or by water--for
the miller of tradition was often found in a water-mill too. The
water-miller's empire has been threatened less than that of the
windmill, for there is no sudden cessation of water power as of wind
power. Sussex still has many water-mills--cool and splashing homes of
peaceful bustle. Long may they endure.
Highdown Hill has other associations. In 1812 the Gentlemen of the Weald
met the Gentlemen of the Sea-coast at cricket on its dividing summit.
The game, which was for one hundred guineas, was a very close thing, the
Gentlemen of the Weald winning by only seven runs. Among the Gentlemen
of the Sea-coast was Mr. Osbaldeston, while the principal Gentleman of
the Weald was Mr. E. H. Budd.
A mile north of Highdown Hill, in a thickly wooded country, are Patching
and Clapham; Patching celebrated for its pond, which washes the
high-road to Arundel, and Clapham for its woods. Three hundred and more
years ago Patching Copse was the scene of a treasonable meeting between
William Shelley, an ancestor of the poet, one branch of whose family
long held Michelgrove (where Henry VIII. was entertained by our
plotter's grandfather), and Charles Paget: sturdy Roman Catholics both,
who thus sought each other out, on the night of September 16, 1583, to
confer as to the possibility of invading England, deposing Elizabeth,
and setting Mary Queen of Scots upon the throne. Nothing came of the
plot save the imprisonment of Shelley (who was condemned to death but
escaped the sentence) and the flight of Paget, to hatch further treason
abroad.
[Sidenote: THE PERFECT WIFE]
The last Shelley to hold Michelgrove, now no more, was Sir John, who,
after it had been in the family for three hundred and fifty years, sold
it in 1800. This was the Sir John Shelley who composed the following
epitaph in Clapham church (one of Sir Gilbert Scott's restorations) to
commemorate the very remarkable virtues of his lady--untimely snatched
from his side:--
Here Lyeth the Body of Wilhelmina Shelley
who departed this Life the 21st of March 1772
Aged Twenty three years.
She was a pattern for the World to follow:
Such a being both in form and mind perhaps never existed before.
A most dutiful, affectionate, and Virtuous Wife,
A most tender and Anxious parent,
A most sincere and constant Friend,
A most amiable and elegant companion;
Universally Benevolent, generous, and humane;
The Pride of her own Sex,
The admiration of ours.
She lived universally belov'd, and admir'd
She died as generally rever'd, and regretted,
A loss felt by all who had the happiness of knowing Her,
By none to be compar'd to _that_ of her disconsolate, affectionate, Loving,
& in this World everlastingly Miserable Husband,
Sir JOHN SHELLEY,
Who has caused this inscription to be Engrav'd.
Horsfield tells us that "the beechwoods in this parish [Patching] and
its immediate neighbourhood are very productive of the Truffle
(_Lycoperdon tuber_). About forty years ago William Leach came from the
West Indies, with some hogs accustomed to hunt for truffles, and
proceeding along the coast from the Land's End, in Cornwall, to the
mouth of the River Thames, determined to fix on that spot where he found
them most abundant. He took four years to try the experiment, and at
length settled in this parish, where he carried on the business of
truffle-hunter till his death."
Angmering, which we may take on our return to Arundel, is a typically
dusty Sussex village, with white houses and thatched roofs, and a rather
finer church than most. On our way back to Arundel, in the middle of a
wood, a little more than a mile from Angmering, to the west, we come
upon an interesting relic of a day when tables bore nobler loads than
now they do: a decoy pond formed originally to supply wild duck to the
kitchen of Arundel Castle, but now no longer used. The long tapering
tunnels of wire netting, into which the tame ducks of the decoy lured
their wild cousins, are still in place, although the wire has largely
perished.
[Sidenote: THE PALMER TRIPLETS]
At an old house near the Decoy (now converted into cottages), which any
native will gladly and amusedly point out, lived, in the reign of Henry
VIII., Lady Palmer, the famous mother of the Palmer triplets, who were
distinguished from other triplets, not only by being born each on a
successive Sunday but by receiving each the honour of knighthood. The
curious circumstances of their birth seem to be well attested.
[Illustration: _Gateway, Amberley Castle._]
CHAPTER IX
AMBERLEY AND PARHAM
Sussex fish--A straw-blown village--A painter of Sussex light--A
castle only in name--Parham's treasures--The Parham
heronry--Storrington and the sagacious Jack Pudding--A Sussex
audience.
[Sidenote: SUSSEX FISH]
Five miles to the north of Arundel by road (over the Arun at Houghton's
ancient bridge, restored by the bishops of Chichester in the fifteenth
century), and a few minutes by rail, is Amberley, the fishing metropolis
of Sussex, where, every Sunday in the season, London anglers meet to
drop their lines in friendly rivalry. "Amerley trout" (as Walton calls
them) and Arundel mullet are the best of the Arun's treasures; and this
reminds me of Fuller's tribute to Sussex fish, which may well be quoted
in this watery neighbourhood: "Now, as this County is eminent for both
_Sea_ and _River-_fish, namely, an _Arundel Mullet_, a _Chichester
Lobster_, a _Shelsey Cockle_, and an _Amerly Trout_; so _Sussex_
aboundeth with more _Carpes_ than any other of this Nation. And though
not so great as _Jovius_ reporteth to be found in the _Lurian Lake_ in
_Italy_, weighing more than fifty pounds, yet those generally of great
and goodly proportion. I need not adde, that _Physicians_ account the
galls of _Carpes_, as also a stone in their heads, to be _Medicinable_;
only I will observe that, because _Jews_ will not eat _Caviare_ made of
_Sturgeon_ (because coming from a fish wanting Scales, and therefore
forbidden in the _Levitical Law_); therefore the _Italians_ make greater
profit of the _Spaun_ of _Carps_, whereof they make a _Red Caviare_,
well pleasing the _Jews_ both in _Palate_ and _Conscience_. All I will
adde of _Carps_ is this, that _Ramus_ himself doth not so much redound
in _Dichotomies_ as they do; seeing no one bone is to be found in their
body, which is not _forked_ or divided into two parts at the end
thereof."
Amberley proper, as distinguished from Amberley of the anglers, is a
mile from the station and is built on a ridge. The castle is the extreme
western end of this ridge, the north side of which descends
precipitously to the marshy plain that extends as far as Pulborough.
Standing on the castle one sees Pulborough church due north--height
calling unto height. The castle is now a farm; indeed, all Amberley is a
huge stockyard, smelling of straw and cattle. It is sheer Sussex--chalky
soil, whitewashed cottages, huge waggons; and one of the best of Sussex
painters, and, in his exquisite modest way, of all painters living,
dwells in the heart of it--Edward Stott, who year after year shows
London connoisseurs how the clear skin of the Sussex boy takes the
evening light; and how the Southdown sheep drink at hill ponds beneath a
violet sky; and that there is nothing more beautiful under the stars
than a whitewashed cottage just when the lamp is lit.
[Sidenote: AMBERLEY AND PARHAM]
Amberley has no right to lay claim to a castle, for the old ruins are
not truly, as they seem, the remains of a castellated stronghold, but
of a crenellated mansion. John Langton, Bishop of Chichester in the
fourteenth century, was the first builder. Previously the Church lands
here had been held very jealously, and in 1200 we find Bishop Gilbert de
Leofard twice excommunicating, and as often absolving, the Earl of
Arundel for poaching (as he termed it) in Houghton Forest. The Church
lost Amberley in the sixteenth century. William Rede, who succeeded
Langton to both house and see, wishing to feel secure in his home,
craved permission to dig a moat around it and to render it both hostile
and defensive. Hence its lion-like mien; but it has known no warfare,
and the castle's mouldering walls now give what assistance they can in
harbouring live stock. Twentieth-century sheds lean against
fourteenth-century masonry; faggots are stored in the moat; lawn tennis
is played in the courtyard; and black pigeons peep from the slits cut
for arquebusiers.
[Illustration: _Amberley Castle._]
Amberley Castle only once intrudes itself in history: Charles II.,
during his flight in 1651, spent a night there under the protection of
Sir John Briscoe, as we saw in Chapter III.
In winter, if you ask an Amberley man where he dwells, he says,
"Amberley, God help us." In summer he says, "Amberley--where _would_ you
live?"
From Amberley to Parham one keeps upon the narrow ridge for a mile or
so, branching off then to the left. Parham's advance guard is seen all
the way--a clump of fir trees, indicating that the soil there changes to
sand.
[Sidenote: A NOBLE DAME]
For two possessions is Parham noted: a heronry in the park, and in the
house a copy of Montaigne with Shakespeare's autograph in it. The house,
a spreading Tudor mansion, is the seat of Lord Zouche, a descendant of
the traveller, Robert Curzon, who wrote _The Monasteries of the Levant_,
that long, leisurely, and fascinating narrative of travel. In addition
to Montaigne, it enshrines a priceless collection of armour, of
incunabula and Eastern MSS. Among the pictures are full lengths of Sir
Philip Sidney and Lady Sidney, and that Penelope D'Arcy--one of Mr.
Hardy's "Noble Dames"--who promised to marry three suitors in turn and
did so. We see her again at Firle Place.
A hiding hole for priests and other refugees is in the long gallery,
access to it being gained through a window seat. There was hidden
Charles Paget after the Babington conspiracy.
[Sidenote: THE PARHAM HERONS]
Parham Park has deer and a lake and an enchanted forest of sombre trees.
On the highest ground in this forest is the clump of firs in which the
famous herons build. The most interesting time to visit the heronry is
in the breeding season, for then one sees the lank birds continually
homing from the Amberley Wild Brooks with fishes in their bills and long
legs streaming behind. The noise is tremendous, beyond all rookeries.
Mr. Knox's _Ornithological Rambles_, from which I have already quoted
freely, has this passage: "The herons at Parham assemble early in
February, and then set about repairing their nests, but the trees are
never entirely deserted during the winter months; a few birds, probably
some of the more backward of the preceding season, roosting among their
boughs every night. They commence laying early in March, and the greater
part of the young birds are hatched during the early days of April.
About the end of May they may be seen to flap out of their nests to the
adjacent boughs, and bask for hours in the warm sunshine; but although
now comparatively quiet during the day, they become clamorous for food
as the evening approaches, and indeed for a long time appear to be more
difficult to wean, and less able to shift for themselves, than most
birds of a similar age. They may be observed, as late as August, still
on the trees, screaming for food, and occasionally fed by their parents,
who forage for them assiduously; indeed, these exertions, so far from
being relaxed after the setting of the sun, appear to be redoubled
during the night; for I have frequently disturbed herons when riding by
moonlight among the low grounds near the river, where I have seldom seen
them during the day, and several cottagers in the neighbourhood of
Parham have assured me that their shrill cry may be heard at all hours
of the night, during the summer season, as they fly to and fro overhead,
on their passage between the heronry and the open country.
[Illustration: _Amberley Castle, entrance to Churchyard._]
[Sidenote: MANY MIGRATIONS]
"The history or genealogy of the progenitors of this colony is
remarkable. They were originally brought from Coity Castle, in Wales, by
Lord Leicester's steward, in James the First's time, to Penshurst, in
Kent, the seat of Lord de Lisle, where their descendants continued for
more than two hundred years; from thence they migrated to Michelgrove,
about seventy miles from Penshurst and eight from Parham; here they
remained for nearly twenty years, until the proprietor of the estate
disposed of it to the late Duke of Norfolk, who, having purchased it,
not as a residence, but with the view of increasing the local property
in the neighbourhood of Arundel, pulled down the house, and felled one
or two of the trees on which the herons had constructed their nests. The
migration commenced immediately, but appears to have been gradual; for
three seasons elapsed before all the members of the heronry had found
their way over the Downs to their new quarters in the fir-woods of
Parham. This occurred about seventeen years ago [written c. 1848]."
Sussex, says Mr. Borrer, author of _The Birds of Sussex_, has two other
large heronries--at Windmill Hill Place, near Hailsham, and Brede, near
Winchelsea--and some smaller ones, one being at Molecomb, above
Goodwood.
Betsy's Oak in Parham Park is said to be so called because Queen
Elizabeth sat beneath it. But another and more probable legend calls it
Bates's Oak, after Bates, an archer at Agincourt in the retinue of the
Earl of Arundel (and in _Henry V._). Good Queen Bess, however, dined in
the hall of Parham House in 1592. At Northiam, in East Sussex, we shall
come (not to be utterly baulked) to a tree under which she truly did sit
and dine too.
[Sidenote: JACK PUDDING'S WISDOM]
Beyond Parham, less than two miles to the east, is Storrington, a quiet
Sussex village far from the rail and the noise of the world, with the
Downs within hail, and fine sparsely-inhabited country between them and
it to wander in. The church is largely modern. I find the following
sententious paragraph in the county paper for 1792:--"This is an age of
_Sights_ and _polite entertainment_ in the country as well as in the
city.--The little town of _Storrington_ has lately been visited by a
_Company of Comedians_,--_a Mountebank Doctor_,--and a _Puppet Show_.
One day the Doctor's _Jack Pudding_ finding the shillings come in but
slowly, exclaimed to his Master, 'Gad, Sir, it is not worth _our_ while
to stay here any longer, _players_ have got all the _gold_, _we_ all the
_silver_, and _Punch_ all the _copper_, so, like sagacious locusts, let
us migrate from the place we helped to impoverish."
[Illustration: _Amberley Church._]
[Sidenote: A TRAVELLING CIRCUS]
[Sidenote: A TIME-HONOURED JOKE]
This reminds me that I saw recently at Petworth, whither we are now
moving, a travelling circus whose programme included a comic interlude
that cannot have received the slightest modification since it was first
planned, perhaps hundreds of years ago. It was sheer essential elemental
horse-play straight from Bartholomew Fair, and the audience received it
with rapture that was vouchsafed to nothing else. The story would be too
long to tell; but briefly, it was a dumb show representation of the
visit of a guest (the clown) to a wife, unknown to her husband. The
scenery consisted of a table, a large chest, a heap of straw and a huge
barrel. The fun consisted in the clown, armed with a bladder on a
string, hiding in the barrel, from which he would spring up and deliver
a sounding drub upon the head of whatever other character--husband or
policeman--might be passing, to their complete perplexity. They were, of
course, incapable of learning anything from experience. At other times
he hid himself or others in the straw, in the chest, or under the table.
When, in a country district such as this, one hears the laughter that
greets so venerable a piece of pantomime, one is surprised that circus
owners think it worth while to secure novelties at all. The primitive
taste of West Sussex, at any rate, cannot require them.
[Illustration: _Pulborough Church._]
CHAPTER X
PETWORTH
Pulborough and its past--Stopham--Fittleworth--The natural
advantages of the Swan--Petworth's feudal air--An historical
digression naming many Percies--The third Earl of Egremont--The
Petworth pictures--Petworth Park--Cobbett's opinion--The
vicissitudes of the Petworth ravens--Tillington's use to business
men--A charming epitaph--Noah Mann of the Hambledon Club.
Petworth is not on the direct road to Horsham, which is our next centre,
but it is easily gained from Arundel by rail (changing at Pulborough),
or by road through Bury, Fittleworth, and Egdean.
[Sidenote: AN ANCIENT FORTRESS]
Pulborough is now nothing: once it was a Gibraltar, guarding Stane
Street for Rome. The fort was on a mound west of the railway,
corresponding with the church mound on the east. Here probably was a
catapulta and certainly a vigilant garrison. Pulborough has no invader
now but the floods, which every winter transform the green waste at her
feet into a silver sea, of which Pulborough is the northern shore and
Amberley the southern. The Dutch _polder_ are not flatter or greener
than are these intervening meadows. The village stands high and dry
above the water level, extended in long line quite like a seaside town.
Excursionists come too, as to a watering place, but they bring rods and
creels and return at night with fish for the pan.
Between Pulborough and Petworth lie Stopham and Fittleworth, both on the
Rother, which joins the Arun a little to the west of Pulborough. Stopham
has the most beautiful bridge in Sussex, dating from the fourteenth
century, and a little church filled with memorials of the Bartelott
family. One of Stopham's rectors was Thomas Newcombe, a descendant of
the author of _The Faerie Queene_, the friend of the author of _Night
Thoughts_, and the author himself of a formidable poem in twelve books,
after Milton, called _The Last Judgment_.
Fittleworth has of late become an artists' Mecca, partly because of its
pretty woods and quaint architecture, and partly because of the warm
welcome that is offered by the "Swan," which is probably the most
ingeniously placed inn in the world. Approaching it from the north it
seems to be the end of all things; the miles of road that one has
travelled apparently have been leading nowhere but to the "Swan."
Runaway horses or unsettled chauffeurs must project their passengers
literally into the open door. Coming from the south, one finds that the
road narrows by this inn almost to a lane, and the "Swan's" hospitable
sign, barring the way, exerts such a spell that to enter is a far
simpler matter than to pass.
[Illustration: _At Pulborough._]
[Sidenote: AN IRRESISTIBLE INN]
The "Swan" is a venerable and rambling building, stretching itself
lazily with outspread arms; one of those inns (long may they be
preserved from the rebuilders!) in which one stumbles up or down into
every room, and where eggs and bacon have an appropriateness that make
them a more desirable food than ambrosia. The little parlour is
wainscoted with the votive paintings--a village Diploma Gallery--of
artists who have made the "Swan" their home.
Fittleworth has a dual existence. In the south it is riparian and low,
much given to anglers and visitors. In the north it is high and sandy,
with clumps of firs, living its own life and spreading gorse-covered
commons at the feet of the walker. Between its southern border and
Bignor Park is a superb common of sand and heather, an inland paradise
for children.
Petworth station and Petworth town are far from being the same thing,
and there are few more fatiguing miles than that which separates them. A
'bus, it is true, plies between, but it is one of those long, close
prisons with windows that annihilate thought by their shattering
unfixedness. Petworth's spire is before one all the way, Petworth itself
clustering on the side of the hill, a little town with several streets
rather than a great village all on one artery. I say several streets,
but this is dead in the face of tradition, which has a joke to the
effect that a long timber waggon once entered Petworth's single,
circular street, and has never yet succeeded in emerging. I certainly
met it.
[Sidenote: THE SHADOW OF THE PEER]
The town seems to be beneath the shadow of its lord even more than
Arundel: it is like Pompeii, with Vesuvius emitting glory far above. One
must, of course, live under the same conditions if one is to feel the
authentic thrill; the mere sojourner cannot know it. One wonders, in
these feudal towns, what it would be like to leave democratic London or
the independence of one's country fastness, and pass for a while beneath
the spell of a Duke of Norfolk, or a Baron Leconfield--a spell possibly
not consciously cast by them at all, but existing none the less, largely
through the fostering care of the townspeople on the rent-roll, largely
through the officers controlling the estates; at any rate unmistakable,
as present in the very air of the streets as is the presage of a
thunderstorm. Surely, to be so dominated, without actual influence,
must be very restful. Petworth must be the very home of low-pulsed
peace; and yet a little oppressive too, with the great house and its
traditions at the top of the town--like a weight on the forehead. I
should not like to make Petworth my home, but as a place of pilgrimage,
and a stronghold of architectural taste, it is almost unique.
[Illustration: _Stopham Bridge._]
[Sidenote: PETWORTH'S HISTORY]
[Sidenote: HOTSPUR'S DESCENDANTS]
In the Domesday Book Petworth is called Peteorde. It was rated at 1,080
acres, and possessed a church, a mill worth a sovereign, a river
containing 1,620 eels, and pannage for 80 hogs. In the time of the
Confessor the manor was worth _L_18; a few years later the price went down
to ten shillings. Robert de Montgomerie held Petworth till 1102, when he
defied the king and lost it. Adeliza, widow of Henry I., having a
brother Josceline de Louvaine whom she wished to benefit, Petworth was
given to him. Josceline married Agnes, daughter of William de Percy, the
descendant of one of the Conqueror's chief friends, and, doing so, took
his name. In course of time came Harry Hotspur, whose sword, which he
swung at the Battle of Shrewsbury, is kept at Petworth House. The second
Earl was his son, also Henry, who fought at Chevy Chase; he was not,
however, slain there, as the balladmonger says, but at St. Albans.
Henry, the third Earl, fell at Towton; Henry, the fourth Earl, was
assassinated at Cock Lodge, Thirsk; Henry, the fifth Earl, led a
regiment at the Battle of the Spurs; Henry, the sixth Earl, fell in love
with Anne Boleyn, but had the good sense not to let Henry the Eighth see
it. Thomas, his brother, was beheaded for treason; Thomas, the seventh
Earl, took arms against Queen Elizabeth, and was beheaded in Scotland;
Henry, the eighth Earl, attempted to liberate Mary Queen of Scots, and
was imprisoned in the Tower, where he slew himself; Henry, the ninth
Earl, was accused of assisting Guy Fawkes and locked up for fifteen
years. He was set at liberty only after paying _L_30,000, and promising
never to go more than thirty miles from Petworth House. This kept him
out of London.
The last two noble Earls of Northumberland were Algernon, Lord High
Admiral of England, who married Lady Anna Cecil, and planted an oak in
the Park (it is still there) to commemorate the union; and Josceline,
eleventh Earl, who died in 1670, leaving no son. He left, however, a
daughter, a little Elizabeth, Baroness Percy, who had countless suitors
and was married three times before she was sixteen. Her third husband
was Charles Seymour, sixth Duke of Somerset, who became in time the
father of thirteen children. Of these all died save three girls, and a
boy, Algernon, who became seventh Duke of Somerset. Through one of the
daughters, Catherine, who married Sir William Wyndham, the estates fell
to the present family. The next important Lord of Petworth was George
O'Brien Wyndham, third Earl of Egremont, the friend of art and
agriculture, who collected most of the pictures. The present owner is
the third Baron Leconfield.
[Illustration: _The Rother at Fittleworth._]
[Sidenote: THE EARL AND THE HOUSEMAID]
C. R. Leslie, who painted more than one picture in the Petworth gallery,
has much to say in his _Autobiographical Recollections_ of its noble
founder the third Earl, his generosity, courtesy, kindly thoughtfulness,
and extreme modesty of bearing. One story contains half his biography. I
give it in Leslie's words. After referring to his Lordship's
men-servants and their importance in the house, the painter continues:
"His own dress, in the morning, being very plain, he was sometimes by
strangers mistaken for one of them. This happened with a maid of one of
his lady guests, who had not been at Petworth before. She met him,
crossing the hall, as the bell was ringing for the servants' dinner, and
said: 'Come, old gentleman, you and I will go to dinner together, for I
can't find my way in this great house.' He gave her his arm, and led her
to the room where the other maids were assembled at their table, and
said: 'You dine here, I don't dine till seven o'clock.'"
[Sidenote: THE PETWORTH PICTURES]
On certain days in the week visitors are allowed to walk through the
galleries of Petworth House. The parties are shown by a venerable
servitor into the audit room, a long bare apartment furnished with a
statue and the heads of stags; and at the stroke of the hour a
commissionaire appears at the far door and leads the way to the office,
where a visitors' book is signed. Then the real work of the day begins,
and for fifty-five minutes one passes from Dutch painters to Italian,
from English to French: amid boors by Teniers, beauties by Lely,
landscapes by Turner, carvings by Grinling Gibbons. The commissionaire
knows them all. The collection is a fine one, but the lighting is bad,
and the conditions under which it is seen are not favourable to the
intimate appreciation of good art. One finds one's attention wandering
too often from the soldier with his little index rattan to the deer on
the vast lawn that extends from the windows to the lake--the lake that
Turner painted and fished in. Hobbemas, Vandycks, Murillos--what are
these when the sun shines and the ceaseless mutations of a herd of deer
render the middle distance fascinating? Among the more famous pictures
is a Peg Woffington by Hogarth, not here "dallying and dangerous," but
demure as a nun; also the "Modern Midnight Conversation" from the same
hand; three or four bewitching Romneys; a room full of beauties of the
Court of Queen Anne; Henry VIII by Holbein; a wonderful Claude Lorraine;
a head of Cervantes attributed to Velasquez; and four views of the
Thames by Turner. Hazlitt, in his _Sketches of the Picture Galleries of
England_, says of this collection:--"We wish our readers to go to
Petworth ... where they will find the coolest grottoes and the finest
Vandykes in the world."
[Sidenote: A PICTORAL PARK]
Lord Leconfield's park has not the remarkable natural formation of the
Duke of Norfolk's, nor the superb situation of the Duke of Richmond and
Gordon's, with its Channel prospects, but it is immense and imposing.
Also it is unreal: it is like a park in a picture. This effect may be
largely due to the circumstance that _fetes_ in Petworth Park have been
more than once painted; but it is due also, I think, to the shape and
colour of the house, to the lake, to the extent of the lawn, to the
disposition of the knolls, and to the deer. A scene-painter, bidden to
depict an English park, would produce (though he had never been out of
the Strand) something very like Petworth. It is the normal park of the
average imagination on a large scale.
[Illustration: _Almshouse at Petworth._]
Cobbett wrote thus of Petworth:--"The park is very fine, and consists of
a parcel of those hills and dells which nature formed here when she was
in one of her most sportive moods. I have never seen the earth flung
about in such a wild way as round about Hindhead and Blackdown, and this
park forms a part of this ground. From an elevated part of it, and,
indeed, from each of many parts of it, you see all around the country to
the distance of many miles. From the south-east to the north-west the
hills are so lofty and so near that they cut the view rather short; but
for the rest of the circle you can see to a very great distance. It is,
upon the whole, a most magnificent seat, and the Jews will not be able
to get it from the _present_ owner, though if he live many years they
will give even him a _twist_."
[Sidenote: THE YOUNG RAVENS]
On an eminence in the west is a tower (near a clump where ravens build),
from which the other parks of this wonderful park-district of Sussex may
be seen: Cowdray to the west, the highest points of Goodwood to the
south-west, the highest points of Arundel to the south-east, and
Parham's dark forest more easterly still. Mr. Knox's account of the
vicissitudes of the Petworth ravens sixty years ago is as interesting as
any history of equal length on the misfortunes of man. Their sufferings
at the hands of keepers and schoolboys read like a page of Foxe. The
final disaster was the spoliation of their nest by a boy, who removed
all four of the children, or "squabs" as he called them. Mr. Knox, who
used to come every day to examine them through his glass, was in
despair, until after much meditation he thought of an expedient. Seeking
out the boy he persuaded him to give up the one "squab" whose wings had
not yet been clipped, and this the ornithologist carried to the clump
and deposited in the ruined nest. The next morning the old birds were to
be seen, just as of old, and that was their last molestation.
Just under the park on the road to Midhurst is Tillington, a little
village with a rather ornamental church, which dates from 1807. There is
nothing to say of Tillington, but I should like to quote a pretty
sentence from Horsfield's _History of Sussex_ concerning the monuments
in the church, in a kind of writing of which we have little
to-day:--"And as the volume, for which this has been written, is likely
to fall chiefly into the hands of men who are occupied almost solely
with the cares and business of this life, this slight reference is made
to the monuments of the dead in order that, should the reader of this
book find, in the present dearth of honesty, of faithfulness, of
disinterested valour and of loyalty, an aching want in his spirit for
such high qualities, let him hence be taught where to go--let him learn
that, though they are rarely found in the busy haunts of men, they are
still preserved and have their home around the sanctuary of the altar of
his God."
[Sidenote: A TREASURY OF ARCHITECTURE]
Petworth should be visited by all young architects; not for the mansion
(except as an object-lesson, for it is like a London terrace), but for
the ordinary buildings in the town. It is a paradise of old-fashioned
architecture. The church is hideous; the new hotel, the "Swan," might be
at Balham; but the old part of the town is perfect. There is an
almshouse (which Mr. Griggs has drawn), in which in its palmy days a
Lady Bountiful might have lived; even the workhouse has charms--it is
the only pretty workhouse I remember: with the exception, perhaps, of
Battle, but that is, however, self-conscious.
Petworth has known, at any rate, one poet. In the churchyard was once
this epitaph, now perhaps obliterated, from a husband's hand:--
"She was! She was! She was, what?
She was all that a woman should be, she was that."
[Sidenote: NOAH MANN]
In a book which takes account of Sussex men and women of the past, it is
hard to keep long from cricket. To the north of Petworth, whither we now
turn, is Northchapel, where was born and died one of the great men of
the Hambledon Club, Noah Mann, who once made ten runs from one hit, and
whose son was named Horace, after the cricketing baronet of the same
name, by special permission. "Sir Horace, by this simple act of
graceful humanity, hooked for life the heart of poor Noah Mann," says
Nyren; "and in this world of hatred and contention, the love even of a
dog is worth living for."
[Illustration: _Petworth Churchyard._]
[Sidenote: GEORGE LEAR'S STRATEGY]
This is Nyren's account of Noah Mann:
"He was from Sussex, and lived at Northchapel, not far from Petworth. He
kept an inn there, and used to come a distance of at least twenty miles
every Tuesday to practise. He was a fellow of extraordinary activity,
and could perform clever feats of agility on horseback. For instance,
when he has been seen in the distance coming up the ground, one or more
of his companions would throw down handkerchiefs, and these he would
collect, stooping from his horse while it was going at full speed. He
was a fine batter, a fine field, and the swiftest runner I ever
remember: indeed, such was his fame for speed, that whenever there was a
match going forward, we were sure to hear of one being made for Mann to
run against some noted competitor; and such would come from the whole
country round. Upon these occasions he used to tell his friends, 'If,
when we are half-way, you see me alongside of my man, you may always bet
your money upon me, for I am sure to win.' And I never saw him beaten.
He was a most valuable fellow in the field; for besides being very sure
of the ball, his activity was so extraordinary that he would dart all
over the ground like lightning. In those days of fast bowling, they
would put a man behind the long-stop, that he might cover both long-stop
and slip; the man always selected for this post was Noah. Now and then
little George Lear (whom I have already described as being so fine a
long-stop), would give Noah the wink to be on his guard, who would
gather close behind him: then George would make a slip on purpose, and
let the ball go by, when, in an instant, Noah would have it up, and into
the wicket-keeper's hands, and the man was put out. This I have seen
done many times, and this nothing but the most accomplished skill in
fielding could have achieved....
"At a match of the Hambledon Club against All England, the club had to
go in to get the runs, and there was a long number of them. It became
quite apparent that the game would be closely fought. Mann kept on
worrying old Nyren to let him go in, and although he became quite
indignant at his constant refusal, our General knew what he was about in
keeping him back. At length, when the last but one was out, he sent Mann
in, and there were then ten runs to get. The sensation now all over the
ground was greater than anything of the kind I ever witnessed before or
since. All knew the state of the game, and many thousands were hanging
upon this narrow point. There was Sir Horace Mann, walking about outside
the ground, cutting down the daisies with his stick--a habit with him
when he was agitated; the old farmers leaning forward upon their tall
old staves, and the whole multitude perfectly still. After Noah had had
one or two balls, Lumpy tossed one a little too far, when our fellow got
in, and hit it out in his grand style. Six of the ten were gained.
Never shall I forget the roar that followed this hit. Then there was a
dead stand for some time, and no runs were made; ultimately, however, he
gained them all, and won the game. After he was out, he upbraided Nyren
for not putting him in earlier. 'If you had let me go in an hour ago'
(said he), 'I would have served them in the same way.' But the old
tactician was right, for he knew Noah to be a man of such nerve and
self-possession, that the thought of so much depending upon him would
not have the paralysing effect that it would upon many others. He was
sure of him, and Noah afterwards felt the compliment. Mann was short in
stature, and, when stripped, as swarthy as a gipsy. He was all muscle,
with no incumbrance whatever of flesh; remarkably broad in the chest,
with large hips and spider legs; he had not an ounce of flesh about him,
but it was where it ought to be. He always played without his hat (the
sun could not affect _his_ complexion), and he took a liking to me as a
boy, because I did the same."
[Sidenote: A LURGASHALL SATIRIST]
Lurgashall, on the road to Northchapel, is a pleasant village, with a
green, and a church unique among Sussex churches by virtue of a curious
wooden gallery or cloister, said to have been built as a shelter for
parishioners from a distance, who would eat their nuncheon there. The
church, which has distinct Saxon remains, once had for rector the
satirical James Bramston, author of "The Art of Politics" and "The Man
of Taste," two admirable poems in the manner of Pope. This is his
unimpeachable advice to public speakers:--
Those who would captivate the well-bred throng,
Should not too often speak, nor speak too long:
Church, nor Church Matters ever turn to Sport,
Nor make _St. Stephen's Chappell, Dover-Court_.
CHAPTER XI
BIGNOR
Burton and the sparrowhawk--James Broadbridge--The quaintest of
grocer's shops--A transformation scene--The Roman
pavement--Charlotte Smith the sonneteer--Parson Dorset's
advice--Humility at West Burton--Bury's Amazons.
Two miles due south from Petworth is Burton Park, a modest sandy
pleasaunce, with some beautiful deer, an ugly house, and a church for
the waistcoat pocket, which some American relic hunter will assuredly
carry off unless it is properly chained.
Mr. Knox has an interesting anecdote of a sparrowhawk at Burton. "In
May, 1844," he writes, "I received from Burton Park an adult male
sparrowhawk in full breeding plumage, which had killed itself, or rather
met its death, in a singular manner. The gardener was watering plants in
the greenhouse, the door being open, when a blackbird dashed in
suddenly, taking refuge between his legs, and at the same moment the
glass roof above his head was broken with a loud crash, and a hawk fell
dead at his feet. The force of the swoop was so great that for a moment
he imagined a stone hurled from a distance to have been the cause of the
fracture."
At Duncton, the neighbouring village, under the hill, James Broadbridge
was born in 1796--James Broadbridge, who was considered the best
all-round cricketer in England in his day. He had a curious hit to
square-leg between the wicket and himself, and he was the first of whom
it was said that he could do anything with the ball except make it
speak. In order to get practice with worthy players he would walk from
Duncton to Brighton, just as Lambert would walk from Reigate to London,
or Noah Mann ride to Hambledon from Petworth. Jim Broadbridge's first
great match was in 1815, for Sussex against the Epsom Club, including
Lambert and Lord Frederick Beauclerk, for a Thousand Guineas.
Broadbridge, after his wont, walked from Duncton to Brighton in the
morning, and he looked so much like a farmer and so little like a
cricketer that there was some opposition to his playing. But he bowled
out three and caught one and Sussex won the money.
Above Duncton rises Duncton Down, which is eight hundred and
thirty-seven feet high, one of our mountains. But we are not to climb it
just now, having business in the weald some four miles away to the east,
past Barlavington and Sutton, at Bignor.
[Sidenote: THE OLDEST GROCER'S SHOP]
Admirers of yew trees should make a point of visiting Bignor churchyard.
The village has also what is probably the quaintest grocer's shop in
England; certainly the completest contrast that imagination could devise
to the modern grocer's shop of the town, plate-glassed, illumined and
stored to repletion. It is close to the yew-shadowed church, and is
gained by a flight of steps. I should not have noticed it as a shop at
all, but rather as a very curious survival of a kindly and attractive
form of architecture, had not a boy, when asked the way to the Roman
pavement, which is Bignor's glory, mentioned "the grocer's" as one of
the landmarks. One's connotation of "grocer" excluding diamond panes,
oak timbers, difficult steps, and reverend antiquity, I was like to lose
the way in earnest, had not a customer emerged opportunely from the
crazy doorway with a basket of goods. It was natural for the boy, whose
pennies had gone in oranges and sweets, to lay the emphasis on the
grocery; but the house externally is the only one of its kind within
miles.
[Sidenote: A ROMAN VILLA]
In some respects there is no more interesting spot in Sussex than the
mangold field on Mr. Tupper's farm that contains the Roman pavements.
Approaching this scene of alien treasure one observes nothing but the
mangolds; here and there a rough shed as if for cattle; and Mr. Tupper,
the grandson of the discoverer of the mosaics, at work with his hoe.
This he lays on one side on the arrival of a visitor, taking in his hand
instead a large key. So far, we are in Sussex pure and simple; mangolds
all around, cattle sheds in front, a Sussex farmer for a companion, the
sky of Sussex over all, and the twentieth century in her nonage. Mr.
Tupper turns the key, throws open the creaking door--and nearly two
thousand years roll away. We are no longer in Sussex but in the province
of the Regni; no longer at Bignor but Ad Decimum, or ten miles from
Regnum (or Chichester) on Stane Street, the direct road to Londinum, in
the residence of a Roman Colonial governor of immense wealth, probably
supreme in command of the province.
The fragments of pavement that have been preserved are mere indications
of the splendour and extent of the building, which must have covered
some acres--a welcome and imposing sight as one descended Bignor Hill by
Stane Street, with its white walls and columns rising from the dark
weald. The pavement in the first shed which Mr. Tupper unlocks has the
figure of Ganymede in one of its circular compartments; and here the
hot-air pipes, by which the villa was heated, may be seen where the
floor has given way. A head of Winter in another of the sheds is very
fine; but it is rather for what these relics stand for, than any
intrinsic beauty, that they are interesting. They are perfect symbols of
a power that has passed away. Nothing else so brings back the Roman
occupation of Sussex, when on still nights the clanking of armour in the
camp on the hill-top could be heard by the trembling Briton in the Weald
beneath; or by day the ordered sounds of marching would smite upon his
ears, and, looking fearfully upwards, he would see a steady file of
warriors descending the slope. I never see a Sussex hill crowned by a
camp, as at Wolstonbury, without seeing also in imagination a flash of
steel. Perhaps one never realises the new terror which the Romans must
have brought into the life of the Sussex peasant--a terror which utterly
changed the Downs from ramparts of peace into coigns of minatory
advantage, and transformed the gaze of security, with which their grassy
contours had once been contemplated, into anxious glances of dismay and
trepidation--one never so realises this terror as when one descends
Ditchling Beacon by the sunken path which the Romans dug to allow a
string of soldiers to drop unperceived into the Weald below. That
semi-subterranean passage and the Bignor pavements are to me the most
vivid tokens of the Roman rule that England possesses.
[Sidenote: PARSON DORSET]
Charlotte Smith, the sonneteer and novelist, was the daughter of
Nicholas Turner, of Bignor Park, which contains, I think, the plainest
house I ever saw in the country. Charlotte Smith, who was all her life
very true to Sussex both in her work and in her homes--she was at school
at Chichester, and lived at Woolbeding and Brighton--was born in 1749. A
century ago her name was as well known as that of Mrs. Hemans was later.
To-day it is unknown, and her poems and novels are unread, nor will
they, I fear, be re-discovered. Her sister, Catherine Turner, afterwards
Mrs. Dorset, was the author of _The Peacock at Home_, a very popular
book for children at the beginning of the last century, suggested by
Roscoe's _Butterfly's Ball_. Mrs. Dorset, by the way, married a son of
the vicar of Walberton and Burlington, whose curious head-dress gave to
an odd-looking tree on Bury hill the name of Parson Dorset's wig--for
the parson was known by his eccentricities far from home. The old story
of advice to a flock: "Do as I say, not as I do," is told also of him.
[Sidenote: VILLAGE HUMILITY]
The little village of West Burton, east of Bignor, is associated in my
mind with an expression of the truest humility. A kindly villager had
given me a glass of water, and I unfolded my map and spread it on her
garden wall to consult while I drank. "Why," she said, "you don't mean
to say a little place like West Burton is marked on a map." This is the
very antipodes of the ordinary provincial pride, which would have the
world's axis project from the ground hard by the village pump. But pride
of place is not, I think, a Sussex characteristic.
Bury, the next hamlet in the east, under the hills, has curious cricket
traditions. In June, 1796, the married women of Bury beat the single
wo
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/20696