An old Norman church, built in the earliest style of that fine but
somewhat heavy architecture, stands about five miles from Ale Head and
Bay, upon the slope of a gentle hill, with many other hills around it.
It is a large structure for the present population of the adjacent
country, if one may judge from the appearance of the land immediately
round. The hill is part of a long range of downs, undivided by
enclosure, and covered by short dry sward, very much like that which
spreads over Ale Head itself. No trees are to be seen as far as the
eye can reach, except, indeed, two old yew trees standing close to the
church, and, probably, planted there by Saxon hands long before the
first stone of the present edifice was laid. So close are they,
indeed, that the long branches of one of them wave against the
mouldings of one of the deep round arched windows, and would, in
stormy weather, break the lozenges of the casement were they not kept
under by the pruning-knife or shears. A piece of ground is taken in
from the hill to form the burial-ground, and is surrounded by a low
wall, with only one entrance, covered over with a penthouse raised
upon high posts. By this gate, pass in and out all who come to the
consecrated ground; the child, to its baptism, the gay wedding party,
to the altar; the congregation, to the worship of God; the corpse, to
the grave.
About three or four hundred yards below the church, in the bottom of
the little valley, through which runs a stream of the clearest and
brightest water, are four or five small houses, or cottages, I should
call them, built of the grey stone of the country, and most of them
thatched. One, however, is of two stories, and has a tiled roof. They
have all their little gardens attached, and are kept in tolerably neat
order; yet, then one looks at this little hamlet from the downs above,
and sees it lying grey upon the green and undivided turf, it has a
desolate and neglected look, as if it had been left behind in the
world's march to rest in the desert expanse around it. Except those
two old yews, there is not a tree near bigger than a currant-bush.
Neither is there any other house to be seen, look which way you will;
for the wide downs only serve for sheep-pasture, and have such a look
of depopulation that, in some of the slopes of the ground, one might
fancy one was standing alone upon the earth, just after the universal
deluge had subsided. I know not whether it looks more lonely when all
the heavens are covered with grey clouds, or when the bright sun
shines upon it from the broad undimmed sky.
Nevertheless, when the musical bell rings on the Sabbath morn from the
old pale tower, the desert seems to waken into life, and people come
streaming over the hills--now a solitary man or woman, now a group of
two or three, now a family, young and old, age and boyhood, now a
group of children, sporting as they run. The scene is all changed, and
it is very pleasant to behold.
Within that church, too, are records of other days which would seem to
show that the neighbourhood was not always so scantily peopled as at
present. The gravestones in the churchyard, indeed, are not thick or
many, and you can walk at ease, without stumbling, over the little
mounds where rest the mortal remains of the peasantry. But within,
against the walls, and even let into the pillars, are many tablets of
marble, black or white, recording virtues and good qualities, and
affection and mourning, which have now left no other memorial behind
them. In the aisles, too, and in the chancel (for the church is built
somewhat in the form of a cathedral), are various very beautiful
monuments of different ages; the mail-clad warrior, spurred and
sworded, the pilgrim from the Holy Land, even a mitred abbot, judges,
and statesmen, and soldiers of a later day--ay, and the tomb of an
infant princess--are there; while, on the pavement on which you tread,
the old stained glass window at the east end, the only one remaining,
sheds its gem-like colours upon slabs of marble, bearing inscriptions
and effigies in brass.
Various are the names which appear in different parts of the church;
but, wherever the eye looks, more frequently than any other, will be
found that of Newark. Statues under which that name is written, in
old Gothic characters, are amongst the Crusaders, and on one black
marble figure, near the font, is a good representation of the heavy
plate-armour of the days of Henry VIII., while above hangs a silken
banner, of which neither the original colour, nor the emblems, can be
discovered through the dust and mould encumbering it. Nearer to the
communion-table is the monument of another Newark, fresher than the
rest, while an inscription below, in modern characters and in bad
Latin, attests that the form above represents a gallant soldier of the
name of Newark, who fell, bravely fighting for his king, on Naseby
field. He is represented, certainly, not in the most classical
costume, with a buff coat, large boots, and the end of a lace cravat
finely sculptured on his chest. The features are not distinguishable;
for, after the monument was raised--and it was a bold thing in those
days to raise it--Cromwell's soldiers got possession of the church,
and with hammers, or perhaps the pommels of their swords, sadly
mutilated that statue and many others. It would seem that the family
of Newark had been steady loyalists; for, on a tablet hard by, is an
inscription to the memory of that warrior's brother, erected during
the reign of Charles II., and stating that he died while in exile with
his king.
On the morning of the fourth day after Smeaton's arrival at Ale Manor,
a ladder was placed against the side of the church, and an old man,
with something like a reaping-hook in his hand, was mounted upon one
of the high rounds chopping away at the branches of the yew-tree,
which approached too close, as I have said, to the window. He was far
advanced in life, and his coat, thrown off, lay at the foot of the
ladder. He had on, however, a waistcoat with woollen sleeves. His thin
and shrunken nether man was warmly clothed, and, to judge from his
dress, he was well to do in life. He had a fine bald head, with scanty
white hair upon the temples; but his brow was knit as well as
furrowed, and a sort of sarcastic expression played about his mouth,
which was not altogether agreeable. Otherwise his features were good,
and on looking at his face, one did not well know whether to think it
pleasing or not.
While he was still hewing away, the solitude of the scene was somewhat
disturbed by the trotting of a horse up to the door of one of the
houses below, over which hung a large straggling bush, with an
inscription underneath, to the following effect:
"THE NEWARKE ARMES. GUDE BEDS AND FUDE
FOR HOSS AND MAN."
The animal which now trotted up to the door of this very rural inn was
certainly what the worthy landlord might denominate a "_hoss_;" but it
looked much more like a barrel on four legs, and those not very long
ones. It was, in fact, a little short pursy galloway, as fat as it
could be, and this fat must have been of a very perdurable kind, for
though the dust with which it was covered, and some splashes of mud
upon its legs, seemed to indicate that it had come a long way, yet it
had certainly lost none of its bulk by the process of perspiration. It
was sleek and well to do, in short, and when its master stopped at the
little public-house, it stretched out its nose, as if prepared to ask
the first person who appeared, if it could have the dinner and bed
which the inscription promised. The rider was a short fattish man,
somewhat resembling his beast, but rather more gaudily attired; for
the pony contented himself with a coat of grey, while he who bestrid
him was dressed, like Joseph, in a garment of many colours.
The old man upon the ladder heard the horse's feet on the road, and
turned round to gaze, resting from his work the while. The sight of a
stranger in the place seemed to give him no pleasure. He was callous
to all such things, and he only set his jaws tight together, and
mumbled something to himself. A boy, and then an old woman, came out
from the house. The stranger dismounted, took his saddle-bags from the
pony's back, and entered the little dwelling. The boy led the pony
round to the rear of the house, and the old man assailed the yew-tree
again.
If, however, he thought he was to go on uninterruptedly that morning,
he was mistaken; for, in about five minutes more, the stranger walked
up to the gate of the churchyard, advanced to the foot of the ladder,
and looked up. The other took no notice of him whatever, except by
stretching forth his arm, and, with greater strength than one might
have believed him to possess, striking off a somewhat thicker branch
of yew than usual, which fell upon the visitor's head and knocked his
hat off.
"Ay! ashes to ashes, dust to dust!" muttered the old man, with a
slight smile curling the corner of his mouth.
The other picked up his hat, brushed off the dust with his
coat-sleeve, and then, without any observation on the accident, raised
his voice, saying,
"I wish you would come down, sexton, and let me into the church."
"What makes you think I am sexton?" asked the old man, gruffly. "I
never buried you or any of your kin."
"No, but you look like old father Time," answered the other, laughing;
"and he buries all men."
"Then you should take me by the forelock," answered the sexton, whom
the joke seemed to mollify a little; "and I have no forelock to take.
So you are out, master. I am the sexton, however. But what do you want
in the church?"
"I hear you have some fine statues there," replied the other; "and I
want to see them."
But the old man was not yet satisfied.
"Why, what do you know about statues?" he asked, running his eye over
the round, fat, unstatue-like figure of the other, with a somewhat
contemptuous look.
"More than you do, old boy," replied the visitor, "though perhaps you
have lived amongst them all your life; for I have made them all my
life; and, depend upon it, there is no such way of knowing a thing as
making it."
"That depends upon the workman," answered the sexton, beginning to
descend the ladder. "I have made graves all my days, and yet don't
know them as well as many who are lying underneath there. But I'll let
you in," he added, in a more placable tone; "for they are fine
monuments, finer than any for a hundred miles round; and, if you do
know anything about such things, you'll say so."
When he reached the ground, he picked up his coat, fumbled in his
pocket till he got hold of a large bunch of keys, and then, walking
round to the door, opened it. The stranger entered, and his guide
followed, with his back bowed and his gait somewhat halting. He had
the same sort of cynical expression on his countenance as before; but
the visitor's first exclamation seemed to please him; for all the
pride of his nature--and every man has some pride--centred in his
church and its contents.
"Ay, this is something like!" exclaimed our good friend, Van Noost; "I
have not seen anything like this in a ride of a hundred and fifty
miles."
"Dare say not," observed the sexton. "Did you come all that way to see
it?"
"No," replied Van Noost, who was somewhat skilful at evasions; "but I
am very glad I have seen it." And, walking on, he began to scan the
various monuments with critical eyes.
"Why, the barbarians have been knocking the noses off!" he exclaimed,
after a momentary glance at one of the tombs. "Why did you let them do
that?"
"Because I could not help it," answered the sexton, with a growling
laugh; "seeing I was a baby and they strong men when that was done,
and yet I am three score and ten, come Martinmas."
"Ay, Cromwell, that devil, Cromwell, and his sacrilegious fools!"
cried Van Noost. "They had no more taste or judgment than pigs in
Smithfield."
"That's true--that's true," cried the old sexton, chuckling. "I
remember them well enough; for I was a school-boy when old Noll died,
and heard him preach once. Those might understand him who could. To
me, he seemed to be talking nothing but nonsense; so I grinned, and
one of his soldiers gave me a thump in the side with his fire-lock
which nearly broke my ribs."
"Then you have cause to remember him," answered Van Noost, "and not to
like him either. These are better times, master sexton."
"I don't know that," replied the man, gruffly. "We have got a
foreigner for our king, and that's as bad as a Protector--at least, I
think so. But I don't know much of such matters," he added, with a
look of shrewd caution, coming upon his face. "King George may be a
very good man, and Hanover rats as good as any other vermin, for aught
I know."
Van Noost laughed aloud, and replied with a significant nod of the
head--
"They may have a rat-catcher amongst them some day soon, master
sexton; but that is not my business either. Gracious goodness, how
dirty these monuments are! And half the brasses are gone out of the
marble!"
"Ay, they took the brass to make farthings of," said the sexton; "and,
as to the dirt, how can an old man like me keep such things clean?
Besides, I don't know how to clean them properly, and I am afraid of
spoiling them."
"I'll tell you what, old boy," replied Van Noost; "I am going to stay
here for a day or two, and help you. I know all about it; and, if I
have time and can get a little clay, I'll cast you a leaden head and
put it on that cherub at the corner. A cherub is nothing without a
head you know, master sexton, because it has got no body."
"Going to stay here for two or three days!" ejaculated the sexton.
"Well, that's funny! I never knew any one stay here a minute after he
could help it. Perhaps you have come down to these parts to make
inquiries?"
"No," answered Van Noost, "no; I don't like inquiries, and always get
out of their way."
The sexton put his finger to his bald forehead, and rubbed it slowly
for a moment, repeating the word. "Ha!" more than once, and then Van
Noost added in his usual _poco-curante_ tone--
"That is the very reason I came down here, master sexton. People were
making important inquiries, which offended me, and I left London in a
fit of indignation."
Ha! said the sexton again. "I understand. You'll be safe enough here,
master. You'll see plenty of curlews, and a sea-mew from time to time.
I've known a roe deer too, in my day, down about the woody places; but
men and women are the rarest birds of all in this country:" and,
laying his old hand familiarly on Van Noost's shoulder, he added, with
a laugh, "No bailiff has been seen in these parts for forty years.
That I can certify."
"I fear not bailiffs!" exclaimed Van Noost, in a mock tragical tone.
"Sexton, I am well to do in the world. I pay scot and lot, and owe no
man any thing--though many owe me, by the way, who will never pay me.
No, no, sexton, 'tis not for debt of vile and sordid gold that men,
perhaps, may seek me, but for those thin ethereal essences called
opinions, which suit not with the tyranny of the times."
The sexton chuckled, for he had a strong sense of the ludicrous, and
Van Noost's bombast amused him.
"Ay, ay," he said, laughing and coughing; "how many a man there is who
is obliged to make his heels save his head for the indiscretion of his
tongue! Now, I'll warrant you've been swaggering about London in
praise of King James, till you got frightened to death for fear King
George should get hold of you. But you're safe enough here, man,
you're safe enough here. Sergeants and pursuivants are as rare here as
bailiffs, and it is not likely they'll be able to track you across the
hills, even if a price should be set upon your head."
"There is no price upon my head," cried Van Noost, with a strong
feeling of nervous apprehension at the very idea. "They could not hurt
me even if they took me; but I love my liberty, master sexton, and
should pine to death if I were cribbed up in a prison-cell."
"It would take a long time to pine you down even to a moderate size,"
replied the sexton, in a thoughtful sort of tone. "I've dug many a
grave in my day, and there's only one I recollect that would have held
you. You are so fat here behind."
"I have committed no crime," continued Van Noost, anxious to disabuse
his companion's mind of the idea that he might be harbouring a
traitor. "I have committed no crime, I say; and the blessed English
law admits that men may talk treason, though they may not do it."
"Ay, the tongue, the tongue!" exclaimed the sexton. "That's what has
brought you into danger, I can see well enough. It is an unruly
member, as the Bible says; but here you will be quite safe. If I have
to bury you, I ought to have a crown more for the width of the grave.
I had when the fat parson died, this time thirty years ago, though his
heirs said they did not like to pay for his fat. But hark more people
on horseback all in one day! Master, I've a notion they've tracked you
close."
Poor Van Noost lost his rosy, colour in a moment; for no man liked
less the idea of martyrdom than he did.
"For Heaven's sake, my good friend," he cried, as the old sexton
peeped through a chink of the church door, which had been left ajar,
"for Heaven's sake, cannot you put me somewhere where they will not
find me? Let me go into the vestry!"
The sexton eyed him, with his quiet old cynical smile. "How fond fat
men are of life!" he said. "The vestry! They'd find you there in a
minute. Here, you fool, go in there down into the vaults. They'll not
look there, I'll warrant."
As he spoke, he unlocked a small door which lay in a shady nook
between two pilasters; and, under the impulse of fear, Van Noost
hurried in, without a word, taking his chance of the old man
recollecting to let him out again. He saw the head of a flight of
steps before him, and was rushing down, when the sound of the key
turning in the lock raised up new fears in his mind, and he paused for
a moment to listen. The only sound he could hear at first was produced
by the slow irregular step of the old sexton upon the pavement of the
church, as he again walked towards the great door, and then a loud
manly voice from without was heard, as if saying to some one at a
distance--"Walk them about till we come back. The air is keen upon
these hills, even at midsummer."
The next instant, another voice answered, "I like that free fresh air.
It feels like liberty."
"Liberty!" said the other voice. "Have you ever felt the want of
liberty?"
"They are marvellous sweet-tongued officers," thought Van Noost,
listening. But no reply was made to the question, or, if any, it was
drowned by the cough of the old sexton; and, when that had a little
subsided, the second voice which had spoken was heard, saying--
"We want to go all over the church, good Master Mattocks."
Van Noost trembled for the security of his hiding-place; but he was
relieved in an instant; for the same voice went on saying--
"So you must show us all the monuments and tell us all about them; for
this gentleman will not be satisfied with half information, I can
assure you."
"That I will, my lady," answered the old man, "that is to say, all I
know; for I never like to say things I only guess."
"My lady!" said Van Noost, to himself. "Ho, ho! It is a party come to
visit the church; and I am shut up here like a rat in a rat-trap, when
I could have given them much more information than that old mummy, who
has dealt so long with corpses that he has caught the look of them. I
have a great mind to knock to get out. They'll be in sad want of a
better _cicerone_."
Caution, however, got the better of vanity; and, after a little
consideration, he began to feel his way down the steps, resolved to
see what the vaults contained. At first, the place seemed dark enough;
but, as he descended, he found that he had been admitted, not to
funeral vaults in the usual acceptation of the word, but to a crypt or
underground church, of a much earlier style of architecture than the
structure above. Low arched windows, earthed up for at least
two-thirds of their height, admitted sufficient light to render every
object round dimly visible. Monuments and carvings were seen in
various different directions; and, with true antiquarian enthusiasm,
Van Noost soon forgot what was passing above in the examination of all
that surrounded him.