<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></SPAN>CHAPTER XXXVI</h2>
<h3>HASTINGS</h3>
<blockquote><p>The ravening sea—Hastings and history—Titus Oates—Sir Cloudesley
Shovel—A stalwart Nestor—Edward Capel—An old Sussex harvest
custom—A poetical mayor—Picturesque Hastings—Hastings
castle—Hollington Rural and Charles Lamb—Fairlight Glen and the
Lover's Seat—Bexhill.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Brighton, as we have seen, was made by Dr. Russell. It was Dr. Baillie,
some years later, who discovered the salubrious qualities of Hastings.
In 1806, when the Duke of Wellington (then Major-General Wellesley) was
in command of twelve thousand soldiers encamped in the neighbourhood,
and was himself living at Hastings House, the population of the town was
less than four thousand; to-day, with St. Leonard's and dependant
suburbs, Hastings covers several square miles. With the exception of the
little red and grey region known as Old Hastings, between Castle Hill
and East Hill, the same charge of a lack of what is interesting can be
brought against Hastings as against Brighton; but whereas Brighton has
the Downs to offer, Hastings is backed by country of far less charm.
Perhaps her greatest merit is her proximity to Winchelsea and Rye.</p>
<p>Hastings, once one of the proudest of the Cinque Ports, has no longer
even a harbour, its pleasure yachts, which carry excursionists on brief
Channel voyages, having to be beached just like rowing boats. The
ravages of the sea, which have so transformed the coast line of Sussex,
have completely changed<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_341" id="Page_341"></SPAN></span> this town; and from a stately seaport she has
become a democratic watering place. Beneath the waves lie the remains of
an old Priory and possibly of not a few churches.</p>
<p>Hastings has been very nigh to history more than once, but she has
escaped the actual making of it. Even the great battle that takes its
name from the town was fought seven miles away, while the Duke of
Normandy, as we have seen, landed as far distant as Pevensey, ten miles
in the west. But he used Hastings as a victualling centre. Again and
again, in its time, Hastings has been threatened with invasion by the
French, who did actually land in 1138 and burned the town. And one
Sunday morning in 1643, Colonel Morley of Glynde, the Parliamentarian,
marched in with his men and confiscated all arms. But considering its
warlike mien, Hastings has done little.</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE ADMIRAL'S MOTHER</div>
<p>Nor can the seaport claim any very illustrious son. Titus Oates, it is
true, was curate of All Saints church in 1674, his father being vicar;
and among the inhabitants of the old town was the mother of Sir
Cloudesley Shovel, the admiral. A charming account of a visit paid to
her by her son is given in De la Prynne's diary: "I heard a gentleman
say, who was in the ship with him about six years ago, that as they were
sailing over against the town, of Hastings, in Sussex, Sir Cloudesley
called out, 'Pilot, put near; I have a little business on shore.' So he
put near, and Sir Cloudesley and this gentleman went to shore in a small
boat, and having walked about half a mile, Sir Cloudesley came to a
little house [in All Saints Street], 'Come,' says he, 'my business is
here; I came on purpose to see the good woman of this house.' Upon this
they knocked at the door, and out came a poor old woman, upon which Sir
Cloudesley kissed her, and then falling down on his knees, begged her
blessing, and calling her mother (who had removed out of Yorkshire
hither). He was mightily kind to her, and she to him, and after that he
had made his visit,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_342" id="Page_342"></SPAN></span> he left her ten guineas, and took his leave with
tears in his eyes and departed to his ship."</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE CHURCH MILITANT</div>
<p>Hastings had a famous rector at the beginning of the last century, in
the person of the Rev. Webster Whistler, who combined with the eastern
benefice that of Newtimber, near Hurstpierpoint, and managed to serve
both to a great age. He lived to be eighty-four and died full of vigour
in 1831. In 1817, following upon a quarrel with the squire, the
Newtimber living was put up for auction in London. Mr. Whistler decided
to be present, but anonymous. The auctioneer mentioned in his
introduction the various charms of the benefice, ending with the
superlative advantage that it was held by an aged and infirm clergyman
with one foot in the grave. At this point the proceedings were
interrupted by a large and powerful figure in clerical costume springing
on the table and crying out to the company: "Now, gentlemen, do I look
like a man tottering on the brink of the grave? My left leg gives me no
sign of weakness, and as for the other, Mr. Auctioneer, if you repeat
your remarks you will find it very much at your service." The living
found no purchaser.</p>
<p>Mr. Whistler had a Chinese indifference to the necessary end of all
things, which prompted him to use an aged yew tree in his garden, that
had long given him shade but must now be felled, as material for his
coffin. This coffin he placed at the foot of his bed as a chest for
clothes until its proper purpose was fulfilled.</p>
<p>Hastings was also the home of Edward Capel, a Shakespeare-editor of the
eighteenth century. Capel, who is said to have copied out in his own
hand the entire works of the poet no fewer than ten times, was the
designer of his own house, which seems to have been a miracle of
discomfort. He was an eccentric of the most determined character, so
much so that he gradually lost all friends. According to Horsfield, "The
spirit of nicety and refinement prevailed in it [his house] so much
during his lifetime, that when a friend (a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_343" id="Page_343"></SPAN></span> baronet) called upon him on
a tour, he was desired to leave his cane in the vestibule, lest he
should either dirt the floor with it, or soil the carpet."</p>
<div class="sidenote">HARVEST HOME</div>
<p>One does not think naturally of old Sussex customs in connection with
this town, so thoroughly urban as it now is and so largely populated by
visitors, but I find in the Sussex Archæological Collections the
following interesting account, by a Hastings alderman, of an old harvest
ceremony in the neighbourhood:—"At the head of the table one of the men
occupied the position of chairman; in front of him stood a pail—clean
as wooden staves and iron hoops could be made by human labour. At his
right sat four or five men who led the singing, grave as judges were
they; indeed, the appearance of the whole assembly was one of the
greatest solemnity, except for a moment or two when some unlucky wight
failed to 'turn the cup over,' and was compelled to undergo the penalty
in that case made and provided. This done, all went on as solemnly as
before.</p>
<p>"The ceremony, if I may call it so, was this: The leader, or chairman,
standing behind the pail with a tall horn cup in his hand, filled it
with beer from the pail. The man next to him on the left stood up, and
holding a hat with both hands by the brim, crown upwards, received the
cup from the chairman, on the crown of the hat, not touching it with
either hand. He then lifted the cup to his lips by raising the hat, and
slowly drank off the contents. As soon as he began to drink, the chorus
struck up this chant:</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>I've bin to Plymouth and I've bin to Dover.</div>
<div>I have bin rambling, boys, all the wurld over—</div>
<div class="i2">Over and over and over and over,</div>
<div>Drink up yur liquor and turn yur cup over;</div>
<div class="i2">Over and over and over and over,</div>
<div>The liquor's drink'd up and the cup is turned over.</div>
</div></div>
<p>"The man drinking was expected to time his draught so as to empty his
cup at the end of the fourth line of the chant;<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_344" id="Page_344"></SPAN></span> he was then to return
the hat to the perpendicular, still holding the hat by the brim, then to
throw the cup into the air, and reversing the hat, to catch the cup in
it as it fell. If he failed to perform this operation, the fellow
workmen who were closely watching him, made an important alteration in
the last line of their chant, which in that case ran thus:</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>The liquor's drink'd up and the cup <i>aint</i> turned over.</div>
</div></div>
<p>"The cup was then refilled and the unfortunate drinker was compelled to
go through the same ceremony again. Every one at the table took the cup
and 'turned it over' in succession, the chief shepherd keeping the pail
constantly supplied with beer. The parlour guests were of course invited
to turn the cup over with the guests of the kitchen, and went through
the ordeal with more or less of success. For my own part, I confess that
I failed to catch the cup in the hat at the first trial and had to try
again; the chairman, however, mercifully gave me only a small quantity
of beer the second time."</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE MAYOR'S PRETTY LAMENT</div>
<p>The civic life of Hastings would seem to encourage literature, for I
find also in one of the Archæological Society's volumes, the following
pretty lines by John Collier—Mayor of Hastings in 1719, 22, 30, 37, and
41—on his little boy's death:</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>Ah, my poor son! Ah my tender child,</div>
<div>My unblown flower and now appearing sweet,</div>
<div>If yet your gentle soul flys in the air</div>
<div>And is not fixt in doom perpetual,</div>
<div>Hover about me with your airy wings</div>
<div>And hear your Father's lamentation.</div>
</div></div>
<p>Hastings has two advantages over both Brighton and Eastbourne: it can
produce a genuine piece of antiquity, and seen from the sea it has a
picturesque quality that neither of those towns possesses. Indeed, under
certain conditions of light, Hastings is magnificent, with the craggy
Castle Hill in its midst surmounted by its imposing ruin. The smoke of
the town, rising and spreading, shrouds the modernity of the sea<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_345" id="Page_345"></SPAN></span> front,
and the castle on its commanding height seems to be brooding over the
shores of old romance. Brighton has no such effect as this.</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE FIRST TOURNAMENT</div>
<p>Of the Castle little is known. It was probably built on the site of
Roman fortifications, by the Comte d'Eu, who came over with the
Conqueror. The first tournament in England is said to have been held
there, with Adela, daughter of the Conqueror, as Queen of Beauty. After
the castle had ceased to be of any use as a stronghold it was still
maintained as a religious house. It is now a pleasure resort. The
ordinary visitor to Hastings is, however, more interested by the caves
in the hill below, originally made by diggers of sand and afterwards
used by smugglers.</p>
<p>Before branching out from Hastings into the country proper I might
mention two neighbouring points of pilgrimage. One is Hollington Rural
church, on the hill behind the town, whither sooner or later every one
walks. It is a small church in the midst of a crowded burial ground, and
it is difficult to understand its attraction unless by the poverty of
other objectives. I should not mention it, but that it is probably the
church to which Charles Lamb, bored by Hastings itself, wended his way
one day in 1825. He describes it, in terms more fitting to, say,
Lullington church near Alfriston, or St. Olave's at Chichester, in no
fewer than three of his letters. This is the best passage, revelling in
a kind of inverted exaggeration, as written to John Bates Dibdin, at
Hastings, in 1826:—"Let me hear that you have clamber'd up to Lover's
Seat; it is as fine in that neighbourhood as Juan Fernandez, as lonely
too, when the Fishing boats are not out; I have sat for hours, staring
upon the shipless sea. The salt sea is never so grand as when it is left
to itself. One cock-boat spoils it. A sea mew or two improves it. And go
to the little church, which is a very protestant Loretto, and seems
dropt by some angel for the use of a hermit, who was at once parishioner
and a whole parish. It is not too big. Go in the night, bring it away in
your<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_346" id="Page_346"></SPAN></span> portmanteau, and I will plant it in my garden. It must have been
erected in the very infancy of British Christianity, for the two or
three first converts; yet hath it all the appertances of a church of the
first magnitude, its pulpit, its pews, its baptismal font; a cathedral
in a nutshell. Seven people would crowd it like a Caledonian Chapel. The
minister that divides the word there, must give lumping pennyworths. It
is built to the text of two or three assembled in my name. It reminds me
of the grain of mustard seed. If the glebe land is proportionate, it may
yield two potatoes. Tythes out of it could be no more split than a hair.
Its First fruits must be its Last, for 'twould never produce a couple.
It is truly the strait and narrow way, and few there be (of London
visitants) that find it. The still small voice is surely to be found
there, if any where. A sounding board is merely there for ceremony. It
is secure from earthquakes, not more from sanctity than size, for
'twould feel a mountain thrown upon it no more than a taper-worm would.
Go and see, but not without your spectacles."</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE LOVER'S SEAT</div>
<p>The Lover's Seat, mentioned in the first sentence of the above passage,
is at Fairlight, about two miles east of Hastings. The seat is very
prettily situated high in a ledge in Fairlight Glen. Horsfield shall
tell the story that gave the spot its fascinating name:—</p>
<p>"A beautiful girl at Rye gained the affections of Captain——, then in
command of a cutter in that station. Her parents disapproved the
connection and removed her to a farm house near the Lover's Seat, called
the Warren-house. Hence she contrived to absent herself night after
night, when she sought this spot, and by means of a light made known her
presence to her lover, who was cruising off in expectation of her
arrival. The difficulties thus thrown in their way increased the ardour
of their attachment and marriage was determined upon at all hazards.
Hollington Church was and is the place most sought for on these
occasions in this part of the country; it has a romantic air about it
which is doubtless peculiarly impressive.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_347" id="Page_347"></SPAN></span> There are, too, some other
reasons why so many matches are solemnized here; and all combined to
make this the place selected by this pair. It was expected that the
lady's flight would be discovered and her object suspected; but in order
to prevent a rescue, the cutter's crew positively volunteered and acted
as guards on the narrow paths leading through the woods to the church.
However, the marriage ceremony was completed before any unwelcome
visitors arrived, and reconciliation soon followed."</p>
<div class="sidenote">BEXHILL</div>
<p>Bexhill has now become so exceedingly accessible by conveyance from
Hastings that it might perhaps be mentioned here as a contiguous place
of interest; but of Bexhill, till lately a village, or Bexhill-on-Sea,
watering place, with everything handsome about it, there is little to
say. Both the tide of the Channel and of popularity seem to be receding.
Inland there is some pretty country.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_348" id="Page_348"></SPAN></span></p>
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