<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></SPAN>CHAPTER XII</h2>
<h3>HORSHAM</h3>
<blockquote><p>Horsham stone—Horsham and history—- Pressing to death—Juvenile
hostility to statues—Horsham's love of pleasure—Percy Bysshe
Shelley's boyhood—a letter of invitation—Sedition in Sussex—a
Slinfold epitaph—Rudgwick's cricket poet—Warnham pond—Stane
Street—Cobbett at Billingshurst—The new Christ's Hospital.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Horsham is the capital of West Sussex: a busy agricultural town with
horse dealers in its streets, a core of old houses, and too many that
are new. There is in England no more peaceful and prosperous row of
venerable homes than the Causeway, joining Carfax and the church, with
its pollarded limes and chestnuts in line on the pavement's edge, its
graceful gables, jutting eaves, and glimpses of green gardens through
the doors and windows. The sweetest part of Horsham is there. Elsewhere
the town bustles. (I should, however, mention the very picturesque
house—now cottages—on the left of the road as<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_113" id="Page_113"></SPAN></span> one leaves the station:
as fine a mass of timbers, gables, and oblique lines as one could wish,
making an effect such as time alone can give. The days of such relics
are numbered.)</p>
<div class="sidenote">HORSHAM STONE</div>
<p>Horsham not only has beautiful old houses of its own, but it has been
the cause of beautiful old houses all over the county; since nothing so
adds to the charm of a building as a roof of Horsham stone, those large
grey flat slabs on which the weather works like a great artist in
harmonies of moss, lichen, and stain. No roofing so combines dignity and
homeliness, and no roofing except possibly thatch (which, however, is
short-lived) so surely passes into the landscape. But Horsham stone is
no longer used. It is to be obtained for a new house only by the
demolition of an old; and few new houses have rafters sufficiently
stable to bear so great a weight. Our ancestors built for posterity: we
build for ourselves. Our ancestors used Sussex oak where we use fir.</p>
<p>Not only is Horsham stone on the roofs of the neighbourhood: it is also
on the paths, so that one may step from flag to flag for miles, dryshod,
or at least without mud.</p>
<p>Horsham's place in history is unimportant: but indirectly it played its
part in the fourteenth century, by supplying the War Office of that era
with bolts for cross bows, excellent for slaying Scots and Frenchmen.
The town was famous also for its horseshoes. In the days of Cromwell we
find Horsham to have been principally Royalist; one engagement with
Parliamentarians is recorded in which it lost three warriors to
Cromwell's one. In the reign of William III. a young man claiming to be
the Duke of Monmouth, and travelling with a little court who addressed
him as "Your Grace," turned the heads of the women in many an English
town—his good looks convincing them at once, as the chronicler says,
that he was the true prince. Justices sitting at Horsham, however,
having less susceptibility to the testimony of handsome features, found
him to be the son of an innkeeper named Savage, and imprisoned him as a
vagrant and swindler.</p>
<div class="sidenote">PRESSING TO DEATH</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_114" id="Page_114"></SPAN></span>Horsham was the last place in which pressing to death was practised. The
year was 1735, and the victim a man unknown, who on being charged with
murder and robbery refused to speak. Witnesses having been called to
prove him no mute, this old and horrible sentence, proper (as the law
considered) to his offence and obstinacy, was passed upon him. The
executioner, the story goes, while conveying the body in a wheelbarrow
to burial, turned it out in the roadway at the place where the King's
Head now stands, and then putting it in again, passed on. Not long
afterwards he fell dead at this spot.</p>
<p>The church of St. Mary, which rises majestically at the end of the
Causeway, has a slender shingled spire that reaches a great height—not
altogether, however, without indecision. There is probably an altitude
beyond which shingles are a mistake: they are better suited to the more
modest spire of the small village. The church is remarkable also for
length of roof (well covered with Horsham stone), and it is altogether a
singularly commanding structure. Within is an imposing plainness. The
stone effigy of a knight in armour reclines just to the south of the
altar: son of a branch of the Braose family—of Chesworth, hard by, now
in ruins—of whose parent stock we shall hear more when we reach
Bramber. The knight, Thomas, Lord Braose, died in 1395. The youth of
Horsham, hostile invincibly, like all boys, to the stone nose, have
reduced that feature to the level of the face; or was it the work of the
Puritans, who are known to have shared in the nasal objection? South of
the churchyard is the river, from the banks of which the church would
seem to be all Horsham, so effectually is the town behind it blotted out
by its broad back. On the edge of the churchyard is perhaps the smallest
house in Sussex: certainly the smallest to combine Gothic windows with
the sale of ginger-beer.</p>
<div class="sidenote">A SCHOOL OF CHAMPIONS</div>
<p>Horsham seems always to have been fond of pleasure. Within iron railings
in the Carfax, in a trim little enclosure of<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_115" id="Page_115"></SPAN></span> turf and geraniums, is the
ancient iron ring used in the bull-baiting which the inhabitants
indulged in and loved until as recently as 1814. That the town is still
disposed to entertainment, although of a quieter kind, its walls
testify; for the hoardings are covered with the promise of circus or
conjuror, minstrels or athletic sports, drama or lecture. In July, when
I was there last, Horsham was anticipating a <i>fête</i>, in which a mock
bull-fight and a battle of confetti were mere details; while it was
actually in the throes of a fair. The booths filled an open space to the
west of the town known as the Jew's Meadow, and among the attractions
was Professor Adams with his "school of undefeated champions." The
plural is in the grand manner, giving the lie to Cashel Byron's pathetic
plaint:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>It is a lonely thing to be a champion.</div>
</div></div>
<p>Avoiding Professor Adams, and walking due west, one comes after a couple
of miles to Broadbridge Heath, where is Field Place, the birthplace of
the greatest of Sussex poets, and perhaps the greatest of the county's
sons—Percy Bysshe Shelley. The author of <i>Adonais</i> was born in a little
bedroom with a south aspect on August 4, 1792. His father's mother,
<i>née</i> Michell, was the daughter of a late vicar of Horsham and member of
an old Sussex family; another Horsham cleric, the Rev. Thomas Edwards,
gave the boy his first lessons. Field Place is still very much what it
was in Shelley's early days—the only days it was a home to him. It
stands low, in a situation darkened by the surrounding trees, a rambling
house neither as old as one would wish for æsthetic reasons nor as new
as comfort might dictate. There is no view. In the garden one may in
fancy see again the little boy, like all poetic children, "deep in his
unknown day's employ." Indeed, like all children, might be said, for is
not every child a poet for a little while? In the <i>Life of Shelley</i> by
his cousin Thomas Medwin is printed the following letter to a friend at
Horsham, written when he was nine, which I quote not for any particular<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_116" id="Page_116"></SPAN></span>
intrinsic merit, but because it helps to bring him before us in his
Field Place days, of which too little is known:—</p>
<p class="right">"<i>Monday, July 18, 1803.</i><br/>
<span class="smcap">"Miss Kate,</span>
<br/>
<span class="smcap">"Horsham,</span> <br/>
<span class="smcap">"Sussex.</span> </p>
<p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Kate</span>,—We have proposed a day at the pond next Wednesday, and if
you will come to-morrow morning I would be much obliged to you, and if
you could any how bring Tom over to stay all the night, I would thank
you. We are to have a cold dinner over at the pond, and come home to eat
a bit of roast chicken and peas at about nine o'clock. Mama depends upon
your bringing Tom over to-morrow, and if you don't we shall be very much
disappointed. Tell the bearer not to forget to bring me a fairing, which
is some ginger-bread, sweetmeat, hunting-nuts, and a pocket-book. Now I
end.</p>
<p class="right">
"I am not
<br/>
"Your obedient servant, <br/>
<span class="smcap">"P. B. Shelley.</span>" </p>
<div class="sidenote">SHELLEY IN SUSSEX</div>
<p>We are proud to call Shelley the Sussex poet, but he wrote no Sussex
poems, and a singularly uncongenial father (for the cursing of whom and
the King the boy was famous at Eton) made him glad to avoid the county
when he was older. It was, however, to a Sussex lady, Miss Hitchener of
Hurstpierpoint, that Shelley, when in Ireland in 1812, forwarded the box
of inflammatory matter which the Custom House officers
confiscated—copies of his pamphlet on Ireland and his "Declaration of
Rights" broadside, which Miss Hitchener was to distribute among Sussex
farmers who would display them on their walls. These were the same
documents that Shelley used to put in bottles and throw out to sea,
greatly to the perplexity of the spectators and not a little to the
annoyance of the Government. Miss Hitchener, as well as the
revolutionary, was kept under surveillance, as we learn from the letter
from the <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_117" id="Page_117"></SPAN></span>Postmaster-General of the day, Lord Chichester:—"I return the
pamphlet declaration. The writer of the first is son of Mr. Shelley,
member for the Rape of Bramber, and is by all accounts a most
extraordinary man. I hear he has married a servant, or some person of
very low birth; he has been in Ireland for some time, and I heard of his
speaking at the Catholic Convention. Miss Hitchener, of Hurstpierpoint,
keeps a School there, and is well spoken of; her Father keeps a Publick
House in the Neighbourhood, he was originally a Smuggler and changed his
name from Yorke to Hitchener before he took the Public House. I shall
have a watch upon the daughter and discover whether there is any
Connection between her and Shelley."</p>
<div class="sidenote">"THE SUSSEX MUSE"</div>
<p>There Shelley's connection with Sussex may be said to end. Yet a poet,
whether he will or no, is shaped by his early surroundings. In some
verses by Mr. C. W. Dalmon called "The Sussex Muse," I find the
influence of Shelley's surroundings on his mind happily recorded:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>"When Shelley's soul was carried through the air</div>
<div>Toward the manor house where he was born,</div>
<div class="i1">I danced along the avenue at Denne,</div>
<div>And praised the grace of Heaven, and the morn</div>
<div class="i1">Which numbered with the sons of Sussex men</div>
<div class="i3">A genius so rare!</div>
<div>So high an honour and so dear a birth,</div>
<div class="i1">That, though the Horsham folk may little care</div>
<div class="i1">To laud the favour of his birthplace there,</div>
<div>My name is bless'd for it throughout the earth.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>I taught the child to love, and dream, and sing</div>
<div>Of witch, hobgoblin, folk and flower lore;</div>
<div class="i1">And often led him by the hand away</div>
<div>Into St. Leonard's Forest, where of yore</div>
<div class="i1">The hermit fought the dragon—to this day,</div>
<div class="i4">The children, ev'ry Spring,</div>
<div>Find lilies of the valley blowing where</div>
<div class="i1">The fights took place. Alas! they quickly drove</div>
<div class="i1">My darling from my bosom and my love,</div>
<div>And snatched my crown of laurel from his hair."</div>
</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_118" id="Page_118"></SPAN></span></p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page118.png" id="page118.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page118.png" width-obs='652' height-obs='700' alt="Cottages at Slinfold" /></p>
<h4><i>Cottages at Slinfold.</i></h4>
<div class="sidenote">SLINFOLD</div>
<p>Two miles south-west of Field Place, by a footpath which takes us beside
the Arun, here a narrow stream, and a deserted water mill, we come to
the churchyard of Slinfold, a little quiet village with a church of
almost suburban solidity and complete want of Sussex feeling. James
Dallaway, the historian of Western Sussex, was rector here from 1803 to
1834. He lived, however, at Leatherhead, Slinfold being a sinecure. A
Slinfold epitaph on an infant views bereavement with more philosophy
than is usual: in conclusion calling upon Patience thus to comfort the
parents:</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_119" id="Page_119"></SPAN></span>Teach them to praise that God with grateful mind</div>
<div>For babes that yet may come, for one still left behind.</div>
</div></div>
<p>A quarter of a mile west is Stane Street, striking London-wards from
Billingshurst, and we may follow it for a while on our way to Rudgwick,
near the county's border. We leave the Roman road (which once ran as
straight as might be as far as Billingsgate, but is now diverted and
lost in many spots) at the drive to Dedisham, on the left, and thus save
a considerable corner. Dedisham, in its hollow, is an ancient
agricultural settlement: a farm and feudatory cottages in perfect
completeness, an isolated self-sufficing community, lacking nothing—not
even the yellow ferret in the cage. The footpath beyond the homestead
crosses a field where we find the Arun once again—here a stream winding
between steep banks, sure home of kingfisher and water-rats.</p>
<div class="sidenote">RUDGWICK</div>
<p>Rudgwick, which is three miles farther west along the hard high road, is
a small village on a hill, with the most comfortable looking
church-tower in Sussex hiding behind the inn and the general shop. In
the churchyard lies a Frusannah—a name new to me.</p>
<p>Rudgwick was the birthplace, in 1717, of Reynell Cotton, destined to be
the author of the best song in praise of cricket. He entered Winchester
College in 1730, took orders and became master of Hyde Abbey school in
the same city, and died in 1779. Nyren prints his song in full. This is
the heart of it:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>The wickets are pitch'd now, and measur'd the ground,</div>
<div>Then they form a large ring, and stand gazing around,</div>
<div>Since <span class="smcap">Ajax</span> fought <span class="smcap">Hector</span>, in sight of all <span class="smcap">Troy</span>,</div>
<div>No contest was seen with such fear and such joy.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>Ye bowlers, take heed, to my precepts attend,</div>
<div>On you the whole fate of the game must depend;</div>
<div>Spare your vigour at first, nor exert all your strength,</div>
<div>But measure each step, and be sure pitch a length.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_120" id="Page_120"></SPAN></span>Ye fieldsmen, look sharp, lest your pains ye beguile;</div>
<div>Move close, like an army, in rank and in file,</div>
<div>When the ball is return'd, back it sure, for I trow</div>
<div>Whole states have been ruin'd by one overthrow.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>Ye strikers, observe when the foe shall draw nigh,</div>
<div>Mark the bowler advancing with vigilant eye:</div>
<div>Your skill all depends upon distance and sight,</div>
<div>Stand firm to your scratch, let your bat be upright.</div>
</div></div>
<p>Further west is Loxwood, on the edge of a little-known tract of country,
untroubled by railways, the most unfamiliar village in which is perhaps
Plaistow. Plaistow is on the road to nowhere and has not its equal for
quietude in England. It is a dependency of Kirdford, whence comes the
Petworth marble which we see in many Sussex churches. Shillinglee Park,
the seat of the Earl of Winterton, is hard by.</p>
<p>From these remote parts one may return to Horsham by way of Warnham, on
whose pond Shelley as a boy used to sail his little boat, and where
perhaps he gained that love of navigation which never left him and
brought about his death. Warnham, always a cricketing village, until
lately supplied the Sussex eleven with dashing Lucases; but it does so
no more.</p>
<div class="sidenote">STANE STREET</div>
<p>Before passing to the east of Horsham, something ought to be said of one
at least of the villages of the south-west, namely, Billingshurst, on
Stane Street, once an important station between Regnum and Londinum, or
Chichester and London, as we should now say. It has been conjectured
that Stane Street (which we first saw at Chichester under the name of
East Street, and again as it descended Bignor hill in the guise of a
bostel) was constructed by Belinus, a Roman engineer, who gave to the
woods through which he had to cut his way in this part of Sussex the
name, Billingshurst, and to the gate by which London was entered,
Billingsgate.</p>
<p>Billingshurst's place in literature was made by William Cobbett, for it
was here that he met the boy in a smock frock<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></SPAN></span> who recalled to his mind
so many of his deeds of Quixotry. The incident is described in the
<i>Rural Rides</i>:—</p>
<div class="sidenote">COBBETT AND THE LITTLE CHAP</div>
<p>"This village is seven miles from Horsham, and I got here to breakfast
about seven o'clock. A very pretty village, and a very nice breakfast,
in a very neat little parlour of a very decent public-house. The
landlady sent her son to get me some cream, and he was just such a chap
as I was at his age, and dressed just in the same sort of way, his main
garment being a blue smock-frock, faded from wear, and mended with
pieces of <i>new</i> stuff, and, of course, not faded. The sight of this
smock-frock brought to my recollection many things very dear to me. This
boy will, I daresay, perform his part at Billingshurst, or at some place
not far from it. If accident had not taken me from a similar scene, how
many villains and fools, who have been well teased and tormented, would
have slept in peace at night, and have fearlessly swaggered about by
day!</p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page121.png" id="page121.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page121.png" width-obs='700' height-obs='462' alt="Rudgwick" /></p>
<h4><i>Rudgwick.</i></h4>
<p>"When I look at this little chap—at his smock-frock, his nailed shoes,
and his clean, plain, coarse shirt, I ask myself,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_122" id="Page_122"></SPAN></span> will anything, I
wonder, ever send this chap across the ocean to tackle the base,
corrupt, perjured Republican Judges of Pennsylvania? Will this little
lively, but, at the same time, simple boy, ever become the terror of
villains and hypocrites across the Atlantic? What a chain of strange
circumstances there must be to lead this boy to thwart a miscreant
tyrant like M'keen, the Chief Justice, and afterwards Governor, of
Pennsylvania, and to expose the corruptions of the band of rascals,
called a 'Senate and a House of Representatives,' at Harrisburgh, in
that state!"</p>
<div class="sidenote">A VILLAGE DISPUTE</div>
<p>Billingshurst church has an interesting ceiling, an early brass (to
Thomas and Elizabeth Bartlet), and the record of one of those disputes
over pews which add salt to village life and now and then, as we saw at
Littlehampton, lead to real trouble. The verger (if he be the same) will
tell the story, the best part of which describes the race which was held
every Sunday for certain seats in the chancel, and the tactical
"packing" of the same by the winning party. In the not very remote past
a noble carved chair used to be placed in one of the galleries for the
schoolmaster, and there would he sit during service surrounded by his
boys.</p>
<p>One returns to Horsham from Billingshurst through Itchingfield, where
the new Christ's Hospital has been built in the midst of green fields: a
glaring red-brick settlement which the fastidiously urban ghost of
Charles Lamb can now surely never visit. "Lamb's House," however, is the
name of one of the buildings; and Time the Healer, who can do all
things, may mellow the new school into Elian congeniality.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_123" id="Page_123"></SPAN></span></p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />
1 of 2
2 of 2
Previous
Next
Update Required
To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.