<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></SPAN>CHAPTER IV</h2>
<h3>CHICHESTER</h3>
<blockquote><p>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.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>I have already quoted some lines by Collins on Otway; it is time to come
to Collins himself.</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>When Music, heavenly maid, was young,</div>
<div>While yet in early Greece she sung,</div>
<div>The Passions oft, to hear her shell,</div>
<div>Throng'd around her magic cell—</div>
</div></div>
<p>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.</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i1">With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,</div>
<div class="i1">Pale Melancholy sat retired;</div>
<div class="i1">And, from her wild sequester'd seat,</div>
<div class="i1">In notes by distance made more sweet,</div>
<div>Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:</div>
<div class="i1">And, dashing soft from rocks around</div>
<div class="i1">Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;</div>
<div><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_29" id="Page_29"></SPAN></span>Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,</div>
<div class="i1">Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,</div>
<div class="i2">Round an holy calm diffusing,</div>
<div class="i2">Love of peace, and lonely musing,</div>
<div class="i1">In hollow murmurs died away.</div>
</div></div>
<div class="sidenote">GEORGE SMITH'S ECLOGUE</div>
<p>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 <i>Pastorals</i> 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:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>Come! Marget, come!—the team is at the gate!</div>
<div>Not ready yet!—you always make me wait!</div>
</div></div>
<p>I omit a certain amount of the dialogue which follows, but at last
Marget exclaims:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>Well, now I'm ready, long I have not staid.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="center"><span class="smcap">Isaac.</span></div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>One kiss before we go, my pretty maid.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="center"><span class="smcap">Marget.</span></div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>Go! don't be foolish, Isaac—get away!</div>
<div>Who loiters now?—I thought I could not stay!</div>
<div>There!—that's enough! why, Isaac, sure you're mad!</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="center"><span class="smcap">Isaac.</span></div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>One more, my dearest girl—</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="center"><span class="smcap">Marget.</span></div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>Be quiet, lad.</div>
<div>See both my cap and hair are rumpled o'er!</div>
<div>The tying of my beads is got before!</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="center"><span class="smcap">Isaac.</span><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_30" id="Page_30"></SPAN></span></div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>There let it stay, thy brighter blush to show,</div>
<div>Which shames the cherry-colour'd silken bow.</div>
<div>Thy lips, which seem the scarlet's hue to steal,</div>
<div>Are sweeter than the candy'd lemon peel.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="center"><span class="smcap">Marget.</span></div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>Pray take these chickens for me to the cart;</div>
<div>Dear little creatures, how it grieves my heart</div>
<div>To see them ty'd, that never knew a crime,</div>
<div>And formed so fine a flock at feeding time!</div>
</div></div>
<p>The pretty poem ends with fervid protestations of devotion from Isaac:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>For thee the press with apple-juice shall foam!</div>
<div>For thee the bees shall quit their honey-comb!</div>
<div>For thee the elder's purple fruit shall grow!</div>
<div>For thee the pails with cream shall overflow!</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="i2">But see yon teams returning from the town,</div>
<div>Wind in the chalky wheel-ruts o'er the down:</div>
<div>We now must haste; for if we longer stay,</div>
<div>They'll meet us ere we leave the narrow way.</div>
</div></div>
<p>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."</p>
<div class="sidenote">HARDHAM'S SNUFF</div>
<p>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,</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.</div>
</div></div>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_32" id="Page_32"></SPAN></span> 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
<i>Hypocrisy</i>:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>A name is all. From Garrick's breath a puff</div>
<div>Of praise gave immortality to snuff;</div>
<div>Since which each connoisseur a transient heaven</div>
<div>Finds in each pinch of Hardham's 37.</div>
</div></div>
<p>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.</p>
<div class="sidenote">WILKIE'S BUMPS</div>
<p>Chichester was the scene of a pleasant incident recorded by Leslie in
his <i>Autobiographical Recollections</i>. 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.</p>
<p>"'And what bumps did you find?' said Lord Egremont.</p>
<p>"'The organ of veneration, very large,' was her answer; and Wilkie,
making her a profound bow, said:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_33" id="Page_33"></SPAN></span>"'Madam, I have a great veneration for genius.'</p>
<p>"She showed us an unfinished picture from <i>The Bride of Lammermoor</i>. 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.)</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 <i>Nature in Downland</i> 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.</p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page031.png" id="page031.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page031.png" width-obs='552' height-obs='700' alt="Chichester Cathedral" /></p>
<h4><i>Chichester Cathedral.</i></h4>
<div class="sidenote">CHICHESTER CATHEDRAL</div>
<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_34" id="Page_34"></SPAN></span> 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<div class="sidenote">ROMAN CHICHESTER</div>
<p>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.</p>
<div class="sidenote">A CLERICAL STRONGHOLD</div>
<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_35" id="Page_35"></SPAN></span> inviolable front doors and trim front
gardens, which (like all similar settlements) remind one of alms-houses
carried out to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_36" id="Page_36"></SPAN></span> the highest power. Surely the best of places in which to
edit Horace afresh or find new meanings in St. Augustine.</p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page035.png" id="page035.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page035.png" width-obs='499' height-obs='700' alt="Chichester Cross" /></p>
<h4><i>Chichester Cross.</i></h4>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<div class="sidenote">SPERSHOTT'S RECOLLECTIONS</div>
<p>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 Archæological Collections:—</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_37" id="Page_37"></SPAN></span> 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...."</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE DEATH OF A SWEARER</div>
<p>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:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>Extreames beget Extreames, Extreames avoid</div>
<div>Extreames without Extreames are not Enjoyed.</div>
</div></div>
<p>"He set off in High Carrier, and turning down Rooks's Hill before the
Sq<sup>r</sup>., 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."</p>
<p>One of Chichester's epitaphs runs thus:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>Here lies a true soldier, whom all must applaud;</div>
<div>Much hardship he suffer'd at home and abroad;</div>
<div>But the hardest engagement he ever was in,</div>
<div>Was the battle of Self in the conquest of Sin.</div>
</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_38" id="Page_38"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="sidenote">THE PERFECT ALMSHOUSE</div>
<p>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?</p>
<p>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.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_39" id="Page_39"></SPAN></span></p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page039.png" id="page039.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page039.png" width-obs='700' height-obs='504' alt="The Ruined Nave of Boxgrove" /></p>
<h4><i>The Ruined Nave of Boxgrove.</i></h4>
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