IX.
A Southdown Village.
(Golden Hours, 1874.)
Symbol of the power that made us a nation, there is no symbol of the unity of its successive generations like an ancient church.
In Seaford Church—dedicated, by the way, to the popular ecclesiastical hero of Sussex, St Leonard—I attended an interesting service, one that in many ways smacked of "the good old times." It was club day. As Mr Barnes, the learned and humorous poet of Dorsetshire, says:—
By ten
O'clock the pleace wer vull o' men
A-dressed to goo to church, and dine
An' walk about the pleace in line."
When I reached the church the procession had already filed in, and the members were all seated, their banners and badges making the aisles look quite gay. The preacher on this occasion was honest and brave, but gave the impression that he cared much more for his own notions than anything else. "Christianity," he said, "had produced the true feeling of brotherhood; the cry we heard so much about now-a-days, 'Liberty, Equality, Fraternity!' was all bosh. They did well in coming to church, but they would do better if, like the old guilds, they had a prayer for every occasion. The members of these guilds were pious as well as provident." Gradually he drew them on to his own belief. "You call your vicar a Ritualist," he said; "why, you are the Ritualists. What else is the meaning of your banners, and badges, and processions? If I did not approve of it, I should not allow you to bring these things into the house of God; but I do, for Ritualism is the voice of Nature." Then he spoke of the way the Reformation had stopped such symbolism in the Church. "Think you," he went on to say, "that I should be afraid to carry out my ideas? No! it is not for want of the will—it's the way. It's the means to do it we want. Ask the Churchwardens what has often been the offertory, even from a well-dressed congregation. Three or four shillings! Why, the people who cry out against Ritualism want a cheap religion—one that shan't cost them anything." Then, after praising their good conduct on former occasions, he rightly protested against the way they had of dividing the surplus money every club-day, and so leaving themselves without any balance. He had already denounced as mean and contemptible those who, being well off, came on the funds directly they were sick. Whether it was the Ritualistic teaching, or the trenchant criticism on the management, which most offended the club, we cannot say—we suspect the latter; certain it was that the stewards refused to make the collection for new bell-ropes, which the vicar said they had promised to do; and the whole congregation walked out, leaving him standing on the altar steps, with his little choristers all arrayed in due order around him, waiting to receive the offertory which never came.
The club, with banners waving and music playing, then formed into procession, and perambulating the town, finally arrived on the green, a piece of common land near the shore, where under a long tent they all sat down to a hearty dinner.
"An' there they made such stunnin' clatters
Wi' knives an' forks, an' pleätes an' platters;
An' waiters ran, an' beer did pass
Vrom tap to pig, vrom pig to glass."
Outside the tent the usual attendants at a fair had arrived. The gipsy carts, the photographers' waggons, the ginger-bread stalls and cockshies. As dusk came, all the respectable men, their wives and children, had gone home, and left the field to the drunken and the debauched.
In many parishes it is, or was, the custom for the rector or vicar to preside over this dinner in person. It was not so, however, on this occasion. The most prominent guest was an officer, a visitor in the town, who made the men a good speech, in which he gave them some excellent advice on the character they should bear at home. "Consult," he said, "your wives, and not your neighbours, in every difficulty of life; cultivate self-respect, and seek to possess true religion." Finally, he inveighed, in the strongest manner, against the sermon that they had heard, which he characterised as an insult to them all.
"Old customs! oh! I love the sound,
However simple they may be:
Whate'er with time hath sanction found
Is welcome and is dear to me."
This is the natural feeling of all poor, unlearned, but pious men. But mediaeval customs, instead of appearing old, are to them newfangled and vain. They infallibly drive all the more earnest ones quite away, making them say as one such did the other day to me, "Why, sir, the Church seem just like a theätre."
Let us, however, cast aside for a time these unpleasing reflections, and refresh our spirits by a walk over the cliffs which rise so picturesquely to the east of Seaford. How full of feature and interest the South Downs become in this neighbourhood!
By the white lumps of chalk placed to guide the wayfarer at night or in gloomy weather, we track our path across the cliffs as it rises and falls with the undulations of the hills. Now and then there are breaks in the cliffy, through which we get wild romantic bits of seascape. The finest of these breaks is about half-a-mile along the coast. The cliffs are split most fantastic-wise, and lead down by precipitous steps from one landing-place to another. It is a dangerous spot to attempt to penetrate too far, but we may advance sufficiently near to note how fine a foreground the white jagged chalk, softened by patches of green sward and yellow poppies, makes to the deep blue sea which fills up the gap. Seen when the moon was up, and the cliffs gleamed out spectrally, while overhead was heard the plaintive cry of the sea-gull, and below, the deep moan of the unseen wave, the place suggested all manner of superstitious fancies to the poor South Saxon. Just the haunt in which the "Pharisees," as they called fairies, would choose for their revels,—a fitting court and temple for Puck, the leading sprite in their frolicsome band. So they named it Puck Church Parlour—a queer combination of ideas.
A mile further on, and Cuckmere Haven is in sight. Not much of a haven, however, especially in summer-time. The sand has silted up and raised the bed of the river some feet above the level of the Channel. During the neap tides there is not enough water in the river to enable it to reach the sea, so there it lies after all its efforts, lost at last in ugly lagunes.
The descent is sharp, and we soon find ourselves wandering along a grassy ridge by the side of the river. A large flock of gulls disporting themselves a little higher up, perceiving the approach of a moving figure, rise rapidly, hover for a while overhead, and then suddenly disappear into space like a troop of ghosts.
Even in these days of railways and telegraphs and Sunday excursionists, an old-world peace lingers about such valleys as these. The lap of the ocean, the cry of the sea-bird, the occasional low of oxen, the continual bleating of sheep,—these are the only sounds which break its repose. The soft green hills undulate on either side, and terminate much the same in outline, altogether the same in effect as they did when a thousand years ago King Alfred met Asser, the learned monk, in the valley that runs up from Birling Gap. Few are the habitations of men. You may walk for a mile, and not see the smallest cot, much less a farmhouse; but when you do,come across the latter, how suggestive of cosy comfort! Embosomed in trees, the farm buildings stand in a cluster, apparently in no order; house, stables, barns, all with white walls and high gable roofs, the said roofs being of that warm red grey, covered with lichen, only properly describable with brush and palette.
How hidden and lost to all human ken are the tiny villages which lie amongst these downs! Why, here, within a mile, the coastguard did not seem to know where West Dean was; and no doubt many a traveller has passed up this valley within a few hundred yards of it, and never dreamt of its existence. Mount the hill at the foot of which stands the little farm of Except, and when you reach its summit you will see, nestling down in the grassy hollow on the other side, a little village, evidently all one community. There is the great house of the squire, the less pretentious one of his bailiff; there are the farm buildings, together with labourers' cots, standing amongst green gardens and tall trees, all gathered round the quaintest little church it is possible to find in England. What a spot for an English Hans Christian Anderson! How cleverly would he describe the look of that little church tower crowned with its conical hat, just for all the world like an old witch; its three windows answering to eyes and nose, giving her a queerly solemn expression, like some ancient tabby who has sat there dreaming, dreaming for ages! For down in this quiet Dean every one must rub his eyes now and then to assure himself that he is not asleep. Up the high slopes of the downs, here and there, a flock of sheep are browsing, but it is too far off to hear their bleat, or even the tinkle of their bells. Swallows and blackbirds are for ever flying across the hollow, just as their ancestors have done for centuries.
What traditions, what tales one might listen to if some old dreamer lying in yonder little graveyard could wake up and relate them! Of the old Saxon, grown peaceful and home-loving, who hid himself away in this nook, and built a church where he might daily pray, "From the terror of the Northmen, good Lord, deliver us"; of the watch and ward there was when the news came that a Danish chuile had been seen in the Sea Ford, or lying under Beachy Head; and how they prepared to carry off wives and children, cattle and goods, up to some town which lay deeper in the heart of the Downs.
Age after age has passed away, and no change has this little village known, save when the old religion passed away and gave place to the new. Still remains the big old font, in which they were ready to immerse a Danish sinner, if he would only give up his wolfish rapacity and be friends with his Saxon brother. Here too, is the priest's house, so ancient that one can imagine the thralls, clad in the same smocks then as now, only wearing the great iron collar of service round their neck, coming to their pastor to recount their griefs, and to crave his intercession with their master to save them from the lash.
Returning once more into the valley of the Cuckmere, we try to wake up, but the spirit of the place is not conducive to concentration of purpose, and we soon find ourselves wandering up an opening in the hills which seems to invite investigation. A large pool, so large that it might almost be termed a lake, leads to the most picturesque of farms. Its old house, its large round dovecot, its barns and outhouses, are all centuries old. From a talk with a foreman, who proved a most gentle sort of man, we learned that the farm covered eight hundred acres, and extended over the downs in one long strip two miles and a half in length; its width apparently not exceeding two or three hundred yards. He lived in the old farmhouse, but did not give a very inviting account of the healthiness of these happy-looking vales. They appear to be nothing better than natural tanks, into which the innumerable springs from the hills pour their water. To drain them thoroughly would be to deprive the sheep of the only water to be got in the hot summer-time; so in winter great pools of water flood the lower levels, causing much disease to the inhabitants. He and his children had all been ill together with ague. He had had it for some months, and was brought so low that he could only crawl on his hands and knees downstairs.
The next village we came upon is, without exaggeration, the most picturesque we have ever seen in any part of England. It recalled the old mezzo-tints of rural life a hundred years ago. The cottages were centuries old, and had the very highest of gable-roofs, with the thatch at the back coming down almost to the ground. In one of these little gardens was a poor mother. She was a great sufferer, her fingers appeared to be half rotted off with scrofula. She appeared a sincere, humble creature; knowing but very little, groping as it were in the dark, seeking, like the poor diseased woman of old, if she might but touch the hem of His garment.
Ere long Alfriston appears in sight,—a cluster of grey-brown houses all comfortably snoozing together. Behind rises the Down, to the left a large motherly church, grey and weather-beaten, built in the form of a Greek cross. This little but most ancient town stands immediately on the bank of the Cuckmere, and to reach it we must cross the meadow, now bright with buttercups; and traversing a long and narrow foot-bridge we enter the town up a side lane.
Thirty or forty years ago Alfriston possessed tanyards and tallow-chandlers' factories, but now they are all gone, and nothing remains to occupy its inhabitants but agricultural labour. "Give me," said Agur, "neither poverty nor riches, lest I be full, and deny Thee, and say, Who is the Lord? or lest I be poor, and steal, and take the name of my God in vain." The decay of Alfriston is an instance of the results of this common evil: the blindness, the vice, engendered by poverty. Ignorance dense and dark seems to have settled on the place. " More immoral than any part of the Weald," such was the testimony of a resident. Neither church nor chapel seemed to have much power for good. The chapel was the ugliest, most dismal-looking building in the town. Little or no interest could be aroused in the people, save when some homely preacher in a smock came and talked to them in the language of hyper-Calvinism. Why does this dreadful doctrine so commend itself to these poor souls? Is it not because it represents God as dealing with the universe just in accordance with their own experience of life?—the great mass left to rot on in blindness, misery, and corruption, while a favoured few are lifted up into health and wealth, and the enjoyment of all kinds of happiness.
One day last summer we saw this chapel decked out in a way that proved that even old-fashioned Dissenters were beginning to believe that repulsive ugliness was not a necessary adjunct of pure religion. It was the anniversary of the opening of the chapel, and some joyous hearts and tasteful fingers had adorned its naked walls and heavy galleries with floral wreaths and posies.
The old meeting-house was well filled, for the preacher was one who not only had a message to deliver, but was endowed with that gift of eloquence which, like sweet music, steals away every heart. The little inn-yard was crowded with vehicles, showing that preaching has not yet lost its power to attract men.
This was not by any means the first time this little inn had been made busy by such an unusual class of customers. In fact, it may lay claim to be called a house of call for the religious. It dates from the early part of the sixteenth century, and is believed to have been used by the pilgrims on their way to the shrine of St Richard of Chichester.
For three centuries there was no name so popular in Sussex as that of the good Bishop of Chichester, Richard de la Wyche. Divested of the superstitious wonders with which his memory afterwards became associated, it is certain that he was in many respects a model bishop. Although he exercised his rule with a certain quaint, fatherly severity, he was always full of sympathy for the poor and suffering among his flock. A characteristic anecdote is related of his charity. On one occasion his steward told him that his rents were insufficient to supply all its demands. "Is it just," he replied, "that you and I should eat and drink out of gold and silver vessels, while Christ, in His poor, is perishing with hunger? "So the plate was sold, and a valuable palfrey the bishop prized, that he might have the wherewithal to give to the poor.
Tempora mutantur: in this mediaeval inn, sacred to such old Catholic memories, the theological food dealt out to the modern wayfaring guest is not simply Protestantism, but Calvinism of the extremest type. The evening we spent under its hospitable roof, we had no friends but the books which loaded the window-sill of this little parlour. They were mostly hyper-Calvinistic magazines; nevertheless we found one which proved to be interesting. It was the life of a man struggling towards light amongst people of these views, and who himself subsequently became a minister among them. For a long period he appears to have been in great and distressing doubt as to whether he was among the saved, but he relates how much this doubt was removed by the text, "We know that we have passed from death unto life, because we love the brethren." What a lesson Joseph Tanner, the hyper-Calvinist preacher, here teaches Christian people! And the answer will be that of the old Scribe—"And who is my brother?"
This little Plantagenet hostel is old—the grey weather-beaten motherly church is older,—but Alfriston contains a symbol older than either, telling of a better welcome than the hostel can afford, of a larger unity than the Church dares to speak of. In the centre of the village, beneath the shadow of a tree, is an old stone cross, a relic of those days when men were taught as much by the eye as the ear; but still, if we rightly think of it, witnessing to us of the same great truths as it did to them; above all, witnessing that there is a great uniting power in the world, able, if men will only permit it, to reconcile them to God and to one another. This cross has indeed a peculiar right to stand there a symbol of that great reality which alone can turn the hearts of the fathers to the children, and of the children to the fathers, binding all the generations in one; for from its steps the same old story has been repeated age after age by friar. Reformer, Puritan, and, latest of all, by an Independent preacher, one George Gilbert, an old soldier, whose earnest appeals resulted in the erection of the ugly little meetinghouse, about whose anniversary we have been speaking.
But we must leave Alfriston, and wend our way homeward, which we will do by the higher road over the downs. The walk, if not so interesting as that along the vale, is productive of finer landscapes and grander views of down scenery. Sometimes the turns and twists of the hills are so sudden, and the declivities so precipitous, that one would suppose oneself on the Yorkshire moors rather than among the gentle scenery of the South Downs. But it—
"Is the hour
When shadow steals o'er nature's loveliness;"
and ere long—
"The moon hath risen on high,
And in the clear blue sky
The golden stars all brightly glow;······
How still the earth! how calm!
What dear and home-like charm
From gentle twilight doth she borrow!
Like to some quiet room,
Where, wrapt in still soft gloom,
We sleep away the daylight's sorrow."