CHURCH AND PARISH
Our Parish Church (plate VII.), that is to say, the Church of St. Mary
the Virgin, Tidenham, Gloucestershire, in which parish my father’s
Sedbury property was situated, was of considerable antiquarian interest,
as, although the hamlet of Churchend in which it stands is not mentioned
in the Saxon survey of 956, the original church was in existence in the
year 1071. The fabric of the church when I knew it was of later date,
and, as shown by the accompanying sketch, chiefly in the architecture of
the fourteenth century, excepting the south doorways of the nave and
chancel and the tall narrow trefoil-headed windows in the north aisle.
The chief point of archæological interest, however, lies in its
possession of a leaden font (plate VII.) in perfect repair, referable
from its style to the transition period of Saxon and Anglo-Norman
architecture, and considered not likely to be more recent in date than
the eleventh century. The subject derives additional interest from the
circumstance of the precise correspondence of this font in Tidenham
Church with the leaden font in the church of the adjoining small parish
of Llancaut, making it demonstrably certain that both the fonts were
cast from the same mould.[12] The decorations on the fonts are in _mezzo
relievo_. These consist of figures and foliage ranged alternately, in
twelve compartments, under ornamental, semi-circular arches resting on
pillars; the design—two arches containing figures alternating with two
arches containing foliage—being thrice repeated. The details will be
better understood from the accompanying plate than from verbal
description, but may be stated as representing respectively under each
of the two thrice-repeated arches a venerable figure seated on a throne,
the first of the two holding a sealed book, the second raising his hand
as in the act of benediction, after removal of the seal from a similar
book which is grasped in his hand. Each of these figures was considered
to represent the Second Person of the Trinity.[13] On this point I am
not qualified to offer an opinion, but whatever may be the case as to
ecclesiastical adaptation in the representation in the second of the two
figures, the first of the throned figures appears to coincide with the
description of the vision of the Deity, given in the “Revelation” of St.
John, chap. V. verse 1,[14] rather than with any representation of “The
Lamb” that “stood,” as it had been slain, and “came and took the book
out of the right hand of him that sat upon the throne” (verses 6 and 7
of the chapter quoted).
[Illustration:
PLATE VII.
LEADEN FONT IN TIDENHAM CHURCH.
]
[Illustration:
CHURCH OF ST. MARY THE VIRGIN, TIDENHAM, GLOUCESTERSHIRE.
THE VAULT ON S.E. SIDE OF THE CHURCH, ABOUT 15 FT. SQUARE,
IS THE GRAVE OF MISS ORMEROD’S FATHER AND MOTHER.
_From a sketch by Miss Georgiana E. Ormerod._
]
The illustration is taken from very careful “rubbings” of the Tidenham
Font. The Llancaut font has suffered considerable damage, and likewise
the loss of two of the original twelve compartments. These had
presumably been removed to make the font more suitable to the
exceedingly small size of the little Norman chapel (plate VIII.). This
church, which in my time was almost disused, measured only about 40 feet
in length by 12 in breadth, and possessed nothing of an architectural
character, excepting one small round-headed window at the east end, with
plain cylindrical side shafts without capitals, and a small cinquefoil
piscina. The situation, on one of the crooks of the Wye, and just above
the river, is romantic in the extreme. The ground rapidly slopes down to
it from above, clothed with woodland from the level of the top of the
precipitous cliffs which rise almost immediately beside it to a great
height above the river. Access on that side is thus only possible by
boat, or by a rough way, known as the Fisherman’s Path, along the front
of the cliffs. Nevertheless, because of the exceeding picturesqueness of
the spot, it was a favourite resort on the twelve Sundays in the year on
which (I believe under some legal necessity) service was there, in my
time, performed. The scene, on the only occasion I was ever present
(when our parish church was closed), might have furnished an excellent
subject for a painting, as the congregation (far too many for the little
church to hold), in their bright Sunday dress, emerged from the sloping
glades or woodland, to the open space close by the church. Comfort was a
matter of minor importance. Those who disposed themselves on the grass,
where they had full enjoyment of the fresh summer air, and heard,
through the open door, as much of the service as they chose to listen
to, doubtless enjoyed themselves, but within it was not so agreeable.
The squire’s family were of course installed in _the_ pew, and there we
were packed as tightly as could be managed, so that we all had to get up
and sit down together. We had a “strange clergyman,” reported to be of
vast learning; and my juvenile terror, along with my physical condition
from squeezing, has imprinted the morning’s performance on my
recollection as something truly wretched.
There being no resident population the chapel has since fallen into
ruin, and the font and bell have been removed to the mother parish of
Woolastone, the bell now doing duty at the day-school there. In 1890 Sir
William H. Marling, Bart. (patron of the living) carefully restored the
font and placed within it a brass plate bearing the following
inscription:—
“Perantiquum hunc fontem baptismalem e ruinis sacelli scī Jacobi
Lancaut in comū Gloucē servatum refecit Guls̄ Hes̄ Marling Bars̄
A.D, 1890.”
The venerable relic stands in the hall at Sedbury Park.
[Illustration:
PLATE VIII.
NORMAN CHAPEL, LLANCAUT, WYE CLIFFS.
]
The history of the “Church” in our parish of Tidenham, whether
interpreted as the body of believers or the building in which they
worshipped, might be well taken, during about the fifty middle years of
the past century, as an illustration of “changing times.” In the year
1826—or thereabouts—when my father purchased the property, Tidenham
Church was no exception to many other churches in rural districts. The
interior comes back to my remembrance as dark, dingy, and very decidedly
damp, as shown by the green mould on pillars and walls. One of the first
improvements was the placing of two good stoves in the church,—one
presented by my father, and the other (rather, I believe, against local
wishes) by the Parish. I well remember the presence of the stoves, as it
was considered by the churchwardens, or whoever arranged these matters,
that the time which was most decorous for stirring the fires was during
the singing as “it drowned the noise.” What our local choir consisted of
I do not remember, but I rather think it was simply vocal, and started
by a “pitchpipe.” But at least there was nothing ridiculous about it. We
did not, as in a church at no great distance, have the violinist and his
instrument carried in on a man’s shoulders because the unfortunate
musician was without legs!
The sittings for the congregation were (I suppose as a matter of course
in those days) all in closed pews with doors—the pews of a size, form,
and respectability of appearance, likewise of comfort and fittings,
according to the social position of their holders. It could not,
however, be said that the chief parishioners had the best places, for
our two large, roomy, square seats were mounted up, side by side, a few
steps above the others at the end of the north aisle, with a good wall
between us and the chancel, effectually preventing our seeing what was
going on in that direction. Within our special pew, which had curtains
more or less drawn, we sat round with our feet at proper times on good
high hassocks. When we knelt we all turned round and faced the sides of
the pew, and my juvenile sorrows were sometimes great towards the end of
the Litany. The fatigue from kneeling on the top of my unsteady perch
produced faintness, and I well remember my anxieties increasing with the
“odd” feeling till I mustered courage to announce to my eldest sister,
whom I held in considerable awe, that I did not feel very well; and
measures were taken accordingly. The pew was said to be just over where
the soldiers were buried who were killed during the Parliamentarian war
at the Battle of Buttington, a locality in the same parish; but on an
occasion of some repairs being made, the flooring was discovered to be
laid on, or close above the live rock, which rendered this view
inaccurate. The surface of the ground was immediately below the floor,
and as the family pew had on its east side one of the great east windows
of the church, and on the north side a smaller one, both with small
panes ill-leaded, and one with a very insufficiently fastened small
window, our Sunday devotions in winter were anything but comfortable.
I believe the rural congregation behaved with great propriety, though
certainly on one occasion it struck me that a reverence during the creed
at the name of Pontius Pilate on the part of the wife of my father’s
farm-bailiff, was somewhat out of place. But we were free from such
lapses in decency of arrangement as occurred elsewhere. The pigeons did
not roost in the tower, neither did a turkey sit on her eggs in the
pulpit, which, considering that the time of incubation for the turkey
hen is four weeks, must have interfered considerably with the due
performance of service. Neither were we, so far as I remember,
scandalised by attendance of dogs in church, whether avowedly
accompanying their masters or making a voyage of discovery as to where
their clerical owner might have vanished. And certainly we did not have
the disgraceful circumstance which occurred in another church with which
I was acquainted, of two ladies of good social position in the parish
walking up to the rails of the communion table to receive the sacrament,
followed by their great Newfoundland dog!
One practice—certainly objectionable, but perhaps not unusual in country
parishes where the church was also used as the week-day schoolroom—was
putting the bags holding the provisions which the children brought with
them for their dinners on the communion table. I do not think that this
was so very shocking, for no irreverence was intended. A table was a
table in those days, and not an “Altar,” and looking back on the matter
it does not appear clear where else the food could have been safely
placed. I fancy there was no regular vestry and, excepting the floor, or
the seats of the pews, there does not seem to me to have been any other
place of moderately safe deposit. However, by and by a room was hired as
a schoolroom, and the church was freed from the presence of the children
and their dinners. I well remember our going over in form to hold some
sort of an examination, which was wound up by my father (who was
certainly better fitted to examine witnesses from the magistrate’s bench
than to probe for what information our little uncivilised urchins
possessed) electrifying the audience by desiring to know whether his
examinee knew the use of a pocket-handkerchief. My mother was a more
efficient aid by paying the schooling of all our own cottagers’
children, and also in allaying strife. On one occasion, when a woman
wished to remove her children from the parish school because they were
better taught at a recently established Unitarian school, she
dexterously overcame the difficulty by stating she meddled with nobody’s
conscience, but if the children went to the parish school she paid, and
if they did not go _she didn’t_. We heard no more on the subject.
Some of our customs were very pretty. On Palm Sunday, that is the Sunday
before Easter Sunday, sometimes known in our part and the district as
“Flowering Sunday,” it was the custom to dress the graves with flowers.
Friends of the family came from a long distance. A son of our
head-gardener would come down from Scotland for the occasion, and the
wealth of yellow daffodils and white narcissus, which grew by the Wye,
close to the little church of Llancaut, helped greatly towards the
decoration. Two Crown Imperials were a greatly admired addition which,
season permitting, appeared to ornament one special grave. The
“flowering” was a touching and pleasing remembrance of the friends whose
bodies rested below, until in after years the custom gradually arose of
placing artificial flowers along with the fresh blossoms, and then
followed the much to be deprecated practice of putting little cases of
flowers of tinsel, or anything that was approved of, which might remain
on the grave. At Christmas time we had the real old-fashioned church
decorations of good large boughs of holly, with plenty of red berries,
mistletoe, laurel, and anything evergreen of a solid sort. The squire
(_i.e._, my father) contributed a cartload of evergreen branches, and as
a matter of course, they were applied largely to ornamenting our corner
pew with more regard to appearance than comfort.
The service was performed simply, as was customary in those days,
without any music excepting the singing of the hymns, but as nothing was
omitted, and there was, I believe, no curate, it must have been rather
fatiguing to the vicar, and it certainly was a terribly long business
especially for those not always in good health, if they stayed for the
Communion Service on the rare occasions on which it was administered.
The drive from the Park to the bottom of the hill on which the Church
stood, was upwards of two miles. Then came a wearying walk up the hill
until this became so steep that in the Churchyard there were successive
little arrangements of steps to help us up the ascent. Within, it seems
to me, that the clergyman neither excused himself, nor us, anything that
might have lightened the strain, bodily and mental, to the younger
attendants. The creed of St. Athanasius was duly gone through as well as
the Litany, and addresses, which nowadays are cut very short, came at
full length. When, after the return drive, we got safely home, I will
not say but that our spiritual state might have been better had our
bodily condition been less open to the unsettling influence of a desire
for a much-needed meal.
One pleasure of the high days was having the fine old hymns for Easter
or Christmas, which no bad singing can spoil, as a variety on Sternhold
and Hopkins, but I still bear in mind the absolute depression caused by
that doleful production, the hymn called “The Lamentation of a Sinner.”
To this day it seems to me that it would be better for such a
composition to be omitted from our service.
Although it appears to be the correct thing for those who have been
before the public in later life to have reminiscences (or for their
biographer to invent them), of their precocious piety, I cannot remember
that I was ever much given that way. I think that I was as a child kept
in steady paths of proper behaviour, and amongst the items taught was
certainly scrupulous observance of the fifth commandment in all its
branches. Any deviation from truth was another point, the wickedness of
which was most sedulously inculcated; and I should say that from my
earliest days I was thoroughly well grounded in as much simple and
necessary religious information as my small head could carry.
But I did not indulge in fine sentiments, felt or expressed, and I think
that my first absolute feeling on religious matters was roused when in
one of our spring visits to London, I went regularly on Sunday morning
with the family to attend the service at the Vere Street Chapel, where
Mr. Scobell was then vicar, and some clergyman of high standing
occasionally preached. One thing that was very charming to a girl who
had not heard anything of the kind before, was the hymn singing. The
splendid hymn “Thou art the way,” imprinted itself on my mind, as
likewise a part of a sermon by Mr. Scobell, on the basis of our trust in
God. He enumerated various of the high characteristics of the Deity; His
boundless power, His holiness and other characteristics of His majesty.
With the mention of each characteristic he put the question, “Does this
give you a claim for acceptance?” until he came to the climax, “His
love,” with the words “_but His love, that_ you may trust.” Perhaps if
the good man had known how these words would abide to old age as a
comfort to one who was then amongst the youngest of his congregation, it
would have given him pleasure.
The Archbishop of Dublin, the celebrated Dr. Whately, also preached at
this Chapel, and I heard him deliver his grand sermon on “the doubts
leading to the assured belief of St. Thomas.” I suppose this time was
what in some circles would have been called my “awakening,” but we in
our family neither thought nor spoke of these things; and any allusion
to such matters would have brought on me (possibly very rightly) an
awakening of another kind, which would have entirely disinclined me to
favour the family with any religious views, beyond what might be shown
in behaving with propriety and above all doing as I was bid to the best
of my ability.
Reverting to early recollections of ecclesiastical matters, or things in
which the clergy might have been expected, _ex-officio_, to interfere,
there certainly was room for improvement, but this was not peculiar to
the olden time. Some of the curious circumstances of which accounts
reached my young ears are better forgotten. One thing that I remember
was the very different position relating to sporting, and also to the
divergence in dress from the great precision now in vogue. A clergyman
of somewhat high position, being, I suppose, pressed for time on one
occasion, performed the funeral service in his “pink” visible beneath
his surplice. Another, subsequently a favourite with all his poorer
parishioners for his kindness, when a candidate for orders, was
encouraged by his father to the necessary mental labour by the promise
that if he passed his examination he should have a double-barrelled gun!
In a locality not far from the edge of Monmouthshire, I myself saw the
incumbent of one of the small livings with his coat off loading a manure
cart! He comes back to my memory as doing the work quietly and gravely,
and with no more appearance of derogation than if he had been budding
the roses in his garden; still the work must have taken a considerable
amount of time from the purposes of his ordination.
The “Oxford” or “Tractarian Movement” of 1833-45[15] made an enormous
commotion, and perhaps for a retired locality nowhere more than in our
own parish.
After the death of the old vicar, amongst a succession of clergy the
most noted was Dr. Armstrong (presented 1846).[16] With him came the
full tide of the Oxford Movement, and as he was a highly accomplished
man, eloquent in the pulpit, of charming society manner in the
drawing-room, and with his heart fixed on driving his own views of
reform and restoration forward, the holders of differing ecclesiastical
views in the parish were soon very thoroughly by the ears. My father as
“squire” and chief resident landowner had always tried (much to his own
discomfort at times) to uphold the cause of decency and order. But with
the new arrangements came all sorts of trouble from an excess of
ceremonial, and peace seemed to have vanished. The attempted setting up
of confession caused much trouble, and difference of lay and clerical
opinion in the restoration of the Church was a fertile cause of
ill-feeling. One special point was the right claimed by the vicar to
prevent any of the general congregation entering the church by the
chancel door. We had always gone in that way, and it was not convenient
to reach the family pew by going round two sides of the church, so my
father stuck to his legal rights, and the door was not visibly fastened.
But one unlucky day when we, the ladies of the family, arrived as usual
and tried to go in, to our consternation it appeared impossible to turn
the latch. It was a remarkably pretty handle—I suppose an imitation of
mediæval ironwork—but it required more than common woman’s strength to
make this unlucky invention act in admitting us to the church. However,
we were not to be kept out by this ingenious device. Muscularly I was
remarkably strong from working in wood and stone, and I was perfectly
happy to forward my father’s wishes, so thenceforward for many a week I
went to church with a round ruler in my pocket, and slipping this into
the hanging bit of ironwork, I easily raised the latch and gave my
mother and sisters entrance to church. I did not object to my part of
the ceremony in the least—rather liked it, in fact—but looking back from
graver age it seems to me that it would have been better if the vicar
had not driven the squire to defend the rights of the congregation by
such forcible measures. After a while the latch (or the vicar’s view on
the subject) was loosened, and we obtained entrance without, like the
violent, being obliged to take it by force.
The real troubles of the times were endless. It was even possible for a
sincerely religious man to absent himself from the reception of
communion on the ground that he was not able to participate with
Christian comfort and in a charitable frame of mind. Within the church
building itself the condition of things was not satisfactory. The
openings beneath the very “open” seats, whereby was secured free
circulation for dogs and draughts, were unpleasant in various ways.
The appointment of our skilled and accomplished vicar, Dr. Armstrong, to
the Bishopric of Grahamstown in South Africa, for which he was eminently
fitted, was hailed by many of us with heartfelt gratitude. In later
years, under the kindly care of the Rev. Percy Burd (successor in 1862
of the Rev. Alan Cowburn) who, without thinking it necessary to push
everything to extremities, attended with the utmost care to proprieties
of detail of worship in church, to social friendliness, and to care of
the poor, we passed along in paths of comfort and peace, for which some
of us were deeply grateful.
* * * * *
Amongst various parish or local matters, of which the bodily presence
has, to a great degree, passed away, and the remembrance that at one
time such things were has probably faded from most of the minds in which
they ever held a place, are turnpike gates, with their adjoining
toll-houses; also the parish stocks and the parish pound.
In parochial arrangements in my day two great improvements arose, one of
which has now long been a regular part of parish work, but was new at
least to us. This was a women’s clothing club. The other was the
commencement of the plan of lending books to those who otherwise would
rarely have seen them. It was introduced by my sister, Georgiana E.
Ormerod, when little more than a girl, quite at her own expense. It was
continued by her without any pecuniary assistance (unless may be
sometimes some small co-operation from myself) to the end of her long
life.
The clothing club was set on foot under some difficulties by the wife of
one of the clergy resident in our parish, for the goods procurable at
Chepstow, the nearest town, were by no means remarkable for their
quality, and Mrs. Morgan thought herself bound to do the best in her
power for her poor subscribers. So the matter was accommodated (not
without a good deal of grumbling from Chepstow shopkeepers about money
being taken out of their pockets) by part of the goods brought from
Bristol (where excellent material was to be had) for the women to choose
from, being sent previous to “club day” to Mr. Morgan’s large and
commodious house. In those days, so far as I know, the plan of sending
the women with tickets to the shops had not been adopted, and our
method, though exceedingly laborious to the lady manager of the club,
was good for the women, for it ensured that their choice was confined to
the very best materials, all of a useful kind, and at the lowest
possible prices.
When a growing up girl, perhaps about sixteen, my sister Georgiana
thought it would be a pleasure to the children of our own cottagers to
have some entertaining books, and she began by lending them from the
small store which had gradually come down from the elders of our
generation. She chose carefully what she thought would be of interest,
and very soon the elder children took to reading, or sometimes the
fathers would read aloud to their families. My sister always either read
the books herself or knew the nature of the contents before lending
them, and when done with they were brought back and exchanged. The
borrowing rapidly spread beyond our own cottagers till it included our
farmers and their friends at Gloucester and Bristol. The books were
almost invariably treated with all reasonable care, and scarcely ever
was one a-missing. Besides the entertainment, they acted as an antidote
to the attractions of the public-house. It was a great delight to my
sister when she had a request for a book, because Jack or Dick was home
from his ship or on a holiday, and they wanted a book that would keep
him from the “public.” I attribute much of my sister’s success to the
care with which, even after her book-lending had extended to far-distant
localities, she chose the books. On one occasion when she had made a
donation of books of her own choosing to the Lending Library, Bethnal
Green, London, she was greatly pleased to hear that the boys and girls
had passed the word round amongst the factories of the entertaining
books that had arrived. Those we found suited best (for I was in some
degree her assistant) were accounts of real incidents made into
narratives. Ballantyne’s earlier books with accounts of the fire
brigade, post office, lighthouse and the like were great favourites,
perhaps none the less for the conversations being at times a trifle
vulgar; but when a writer took up some special view, as of teetotalism,
high-churchism, or any other specialism, we dropped him. Stories of
olden times, such as the Plague in London, or the Great Fire; risings in
Henry the Eighth’s time; wars of the time of Charles the First and
Cromwell; forest troubles of the time of William Rufus, and the
like—told as stories, with the facts correct although the thread on
which they were strung was imaginary—were always favourites. We seldom
lent absolutely religious books unless they were asked for, and then we
took care that they should be of a solid and interesting sort; but
whether sacred or secular the number of books lent or given for lending
in the course of the year was very great.
My sister was a highly accomplished woman, a good linguist and
historian, and a careful scriptural student. As a scientific
entomologist and a Fellow of the Entomological Society of London, she
was a co-operator with me in my work. She devoted her artistic talent
for many years to the execution of excellent diagrams, serviceable for
agricultural purposes, of insects injurious to farm and orchard produce,
some of which she made over to the Royal Agricultural Society, but the
greater number she presented to friends interested in lessening the
amount of loss through insect injury, and to Agricultural Colleges. From
girlhood to old age she unceasingly carried on her chosen work of
distribution of useful healthy literature. She asked no aid, nor made
the considerable sums she expended, and the careful cordial thought she
gave to this work, matter of public notoriety, but in her last moments
it brought a smile to her face when I told her that I purposed to
continue her work.
* * * * *
My father when living near Chester had the first news on a Sunday
morning before church time, of the Duke of Wellington’s success, and
that the battle of Waterloo had been fought and won. After service he
mounted on a tombstone and announced the glorious news to the assembled
congregation. In my early days in Gloucestershire, a neighbour, Captain
Fenton, was at times thought to be tedious in his recurrence to the
charge of the Scots Greys in which he had served, but it was a grand
memory all the same.
In a much humbler sphere and at a different stage of the same great
struggle an interesting part was played by a very decent
woman—afterwards a servant in our family—at the burial of Sir John Moore
at Corunna. She was proud to remember that she was one of those who held
a lanthorn at the ceremony alluded to in Wolfe’s poem:—
“We buried him darkly at dead of night
* * * * * *
By the struggling moonbeams’ misty light
And the lanthorn dimly burning.”
[Illustration:
PLATE IX.
MAP OF THE BANKS OF THE WYE.
SEDBURY PARK PROPERTY, THE DARKLY SHADED AREA BETWEEN
SEVERN AND WYE.
(_pp. 33 and 38._)
]
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