The Meon Valley--Warnford--A hidden church--A house "a million years
old"!--A Saxon sun-dial--A ruined home--Corhampton and its Saxon
church--A modern "Naboth's Vineyard"--An out-of-the-world village--A
curious story--Quaint carvings and their legend--A church tower built
by servants.
We left Alton by the Winchester road; we did not, however, follow it
for long, but turned down a by-road and soon reached a pretty village
of some thatched cottages built round a little green, with its pond
to make the picture complete. The inn there had on its signboard
the representation of a fat monk with the legend "The Grey Friar,"
a fresh sign to me. Then passing a finely timbered park with many
wide-branching elms in it, causing grey patches of shade on the great
sweeps of sunlit sward, we began to explore the lovely Meon Valley,
through which runs the clear and bright river Meon between richly
wooded banks and gently sloping hills. I really do not think an artist
could have designed prettier scenery had he the designing of it. A
valley full of quiet beauty, yet so ignorant was I of my own land I had
not heard of its charms before; many a guidebook-lauded valley is not
half so beautiful as it. No poet has been born in that valley to sing
its praises, otherwise it might have been famed. The day, too, was
perfect, and the soft sunshine helped to make everything pleasant; the
day and scene were attuned one to another.
Up and down hill we went, then we dropped down to West Meon, a neat,
clean village. The chief occupation of its inhabitants at the time
appeared to be in standing idly at their doorways, or loafing in the
road; it somehow reminded me of a scene at a theatre ready set, with
the minor performers in place and awaiting the principal actors to come
on the stage and play their parts. I often wonder how these villagers
live with no local industry; they cannot live on one another, and
they do not seem exactly the sort of people to receive dividends on
investments, though in all of them at least the public-house appears
to prosper. It is a problem beyond me. Here we crossed the Meon on a
little stone bridge and proceeded by a delightfully tree-shaded road,
as pleasant as a road could be, and along by the river-side to the
tiny decayed village of Warnford, a mere hamlet rather of a few pretty
and ancient cottages deep in woods where each cottage is a picture.
Yet it had a depressingly lonely look as though the village were under
some spell, for I did not see a soul about it, not a face at a window,
not a figure at a door, no one in its cottage gardens, not a child,
nor a dog, nor a fowl in the road. I stopped in the village for an
hour, or more, to make some sketches and to take some photographs,
yet all that while there was no sign of life about the place, no one
going or coming. I could not but marvel at this, it was so curious
an experience. It looked like a deserted village, yet the cottages
appeared well cared for, and their little gardens loved and well
tended. The strange loneliness and silence of the spot impressed me.
Why was it? I could not account for it, unless all its inhabitants were
away making holiday, but where were the dogs and the fowls? It might
almost have been one of those picturesque model villages one sees in
an exhibition at an early hour before the very properly dressed up and
show village maidens have arrived and when no one is there, only it was
far too real for that.
There was one thing besides its loneliness that seemed strange and
incomplete about the spot, though for a time I could not realise what
I missed; then it struck me it was the absence of a presiding church,
that is generally such a prominent feature of a village and centres
the life of it. I looked carefully around, but nowhere could I see
the church; there was no sign of one, nor a chapel. For even peaceful
villagers cannot worship one God in one way.
As I left the village by a road that bent round sharply by the side of
a park, at last I saw a human being, a man close at hand in a field. So
I pulled up and asked where the church was, or if there were one. "The
church," replied he, "it be away in the park opposite, right in the
woods. You cannot see it till you come to it. You go in at the lodge
gate and follow the road over the bridge, then when you comes in sight
of the house you turns to the right, and there be the church in the
woods. It be a curious old place, over a thousand years old they do
say." I thought I would see it. A thousand years old is a fair age for
a building, and though the man might be mistaken in that, probably the
building was very ancient. So off I set in search of the church that
I found some way off in the park, half hidden and surrounded by trees
and green in the shade of them. A humble little church with a damp and
time-worn look, yet with a certain pathetic charm about it that belongs
to most things ancient of man's contriving. I was surprised in so poor
a church to come upon a fine altar-tomb with the recumbent effigies of
a man and his two wives, and the kneeling figures of their children
below; and another similar monument, both to members of the same Neale
family, the earliest one bearing date of 1599. Drops of moisture were
dripping down the sides of the monuments as though the very stones
were mourning for the forgotten dead. There is some fine carved oak in
the church going to decay, and a curious old pillared font. But the
interior was so dim and damp I was glad to get out of it. It certainly
is an ancient church, and perhaps looks more ancient than it really
is. Some of the walls, and certainly the small yet massive tower, are
Norman, but that would not make it over a thousand years old; still, a
century or two is nothing to rural folk. I once asked a man in a little
country town if he could tell me the age of an interesting old house
there. "I don't rightly know just how old it be," he replied, "but it's
over a million years old, that I know for certain." I was astonished.
"Surely you have made a mistake?" I exclaimed. "No, I haven't," he
responded, "for there's the date carved upon it, as you may see," and
he pointed this out to me, for it had escaped my notice, carved in
Roman letters, "MDXCII." "There, I told you it was over a million years
old. 'M' stands for a million, as you know, and the other letters for
more years, but I cannot rightly read them." I said nothing; it was not
my business to educate the countryman. Once I did attempt to correct a
villager about some glaring mistake in reading an inscription--he would
read it to me; he resented my correction and walked off in a huff; now
I am careful not to run the risk of so offending again.
Church clerks too, as a frequent rule, I have found very touchy if you
venture, however mildly, to differ with them about anything they may
have to say about their church. I shall not in a hurry forget the rare
trouble I got into with a more than usually intelligent clerk who was
showing me over his interesting old church. Now I had noticed in the
tiny town a small and cheap local handbook of the church for sale, so
I purchased this before going to inspect the building. I had it with
me as I went round the church accompanied by the clerk; I referred to
it now and again and found it fairly correct as far as my knowledge
went, but on one minor point of architecture I certainly thought the
author was manifestly wrong. In my innocence I pointed this out to the
clerk, with what I thought to be the quite harmless remark that "the
writer of this book does not know everything." My guide was up in arms
in a moment. "What do you mean?" queried he; "the book is absolutely
correct; I never, no never, heard any one question it before. It has
always given perfect satisfaction," and so forth and for some time. I
was fairly taken aback. Why all this rage about nothing? thought I, and
as I was thinking it out the clerk suddenly exclaimed, "Do you know who
wrote that book?" I confessed I did not. "Why, I did," said the clerk,
"I who have been here for over twenty long years, and there's not a
soul in the whole county knows as much about the church as I do; I know
every stone of it, and you have only been in it ten minutes. Now what
is ten minutes to twenty years' long study?" I had "put my hand in a
hornet's nest," as the saying has it, and I hardly remember to this
day how I smoothed matters over; indeed I am not sure if I actually
did, the clerk's feelings were wounded. I was truly sorry. I humbly
apologised, I even trebled my tip, trusting thus to appease him; in a
measure I did, but in a measure only, for he accepted it in an off-hand
manner as though he were doing me a favour; still he accepted it, upon
doing which he remarked, "You're a generous gentleman, that I will own,
but you really don't understand architecture; however," now in a tone
more of sorrow than anger, "it takes a lifetime of study, it do." I was
glad to get away from that clerk. Now I am careful when reading a book,
or when having read one, that I do not talk unawares to its author.
Yet I actually blundered again in a much similar way, though I hardly
think I was treated quite fairly that time. An artist friend took me
to look over a picture-gallery; he asked my opinion of the different
pictures as we passed along; my opinion was not worth much, but he
seemed pleased to have it, so I gave it quite freely. Of one picture I
exclaimed, as I felt bound to make some remarks, "Well, I don't think
much of that." "No more do I," said my friend, "for I painted it!" But
when I profusely apologised and tried to explain I meant something
quite different, even at the price of the truth, unlike the clerk my
friend laughed aloud at the trick he had played and how he had trapped
me, then insisted on my dining with him that night. Once on the journey
I thought I saw an opportunity to turn the tables and to score in this
way off a stranger. We were chatting in the smoke-room of our inn after
dinner, when, to my surprise, I discovered he was reading a book I had
written; he knew not my name, nor did I know his, and I hoped he might
make some disparaging remark about my book, then I would tell him I
wrote it, and could myself indulge in a laugh. But it never came off,
for he put down the book unconcernedly and talked to me most of the
evening; evidently he preferred my talk to my writing.
But to return to the little church of Warnford, it depressed me with
its silence and gloom; I was glad to get out into the fresh air, for it
seemed like a tomb. As I was leaving, under the porch I caught sight of
a curious old Saxon sun-dial, a somewhat rare thing to find, and over
it was a long Latin inscription relating, as far as I could make out,
though my Latin is rusty, to the rebuilding of the church a long while
ago. The dial probably belonged to a still more ancient church that
once stood on the spot, but why it was placed there where no sun could
reach it I could not understand.
Just by the side of the neglected churchyard I caught a glimpse of the
ruins of an old house buried in trees, and a grand house it must have
been in its day, for six upstanding stone pillars of what once was its
great hall testify to its size, but little else remains but some broken
and mouldering walls. Of its history I could glean nothing, for there
was no one about to ask this. Then I returned to the car, and once more
proceeded on my pleasant way down the wooded valley, with the musical
murmuring of the river and the song of the wind in the woods for
company; and I had all this lovely country to myself for some miles,
except for a stray farmer's gig and a cart or two--a country where to
my mind's eye peace dwelt in lowly cottages and scattered old-time
farmhouses; truly the trail of the serpent might be there as well as
elsewhere, but I saw no sign of it. To me it was a valley of peace and
contentment. Perhaps it was because I was an onlooker only and had no
concern in its life. It is well to be a mere onlooker at times, then
the drama of the little world before you runs smoothly; you do not
see behind the scenes. You behold neither the tragedy nor the comedy
of life, only its sunshine and its pleasantness. So it is wise not to
abide too long in any place, however it take your fancy, lest you risk
disillusion of finding the world is much the same the world over,
and the earthly paradise you have discovered is no paradise at all. I
thought I had found my paradise once in a charming old and picturesque
village far west, where all seemed so peaceful and blest; but I stayed
there too long, for on getting to know the quiet country folk I too
quickly discovered they had their grievances one against the other,
just as much as those people who live in less desirable spots; these
grievances mostly seemed paltry to me who had no part in them, but they
were not to be got over. Yes, I had stayed there too long. Three weeks
had I stayed, so charmed was I with the place and its cosy old inn: I
had better have stayed for only three days, and retained my first dream
of perfection.
Next we came to the adjoining villages of Corhampton and Meon Stoke;
I took them for one, but I learnt that the little river Meon divides
them and that they really are two distinct places. On each side of
the river, almost within a stone's throw of each other, their ancient
churches stand. Two places of worship where one might suffice--surely a
waste of Christian energy! How much energy is often wasted in country
churches! A Sussex parson once told me that sometimes he had to preach
and the choir had to sing to three old women and an umbrella! Both
Corhampton and Meon Stoke are lovely villages in a lovely spot enclosed
by wooded hills; you might travel for many a day and many a mile before
coming to so fair a corner of the land. It is as fair as wooded hills,
gently gliding river, with a droning old mill by its side, green
meadows, pretty cottages gracefully yet accidentally grouped, and two
grey, quaint, and ancient churches can make it.
Meon Stoke church with its odd black wooden bell-turret makes a pretty
picture standing by the side of the river where it broadens out into
a pool. Corhampton church stands on a little knoll almost opposite,
and is small and most unpretending, but of much interest, being Saxon,
though since those far-away Saxon times it has suffered alteration. Now
Saxon churches are rare in the land, notwithstanding that this was the
second we had come upon in out-of-the-way places during the journey.
Its walls still show the long-and-short Saxon stone-work, and there
is a good example of a Saxon doorway on the north side, unfortunately
built up. There is to me little doubt that its walls are the original
ones, though patched here and there, and though later windows have
been inserted in them, so that the building remains the same size and
form as when first erected, long centuries past. In the churchyard is
a large yew-tree undoubtedly ancient, but whether it is "as old as
the building itself and the oldest in the country," as a parishioner
asserted it was, I could scarcely believe; perhaps he did not realise
the age of the church. I grant that the tree likely flourished in the
days of Queen Bess, probably was old even then, and that takes one
back a good while. How many churchyards boast of having the biggest
and oldest yew-tree in the land? I have quite lost count of them, and
of the "smallest church in England" I have seen not a few. Standing at
one side of the porch we noticed the original altar-stone with five
crosses on it, and within the church, built into the south wall of
the chancel, is a curious stone chair. But I think perhaps Corhampton
church is of more interest to the archaeologist than to the average
tourist. I suppose there are still trout in the Meon as there were in
Izaak Walton's past days when he fished in that river, for as we left
I observed a woman on its banks patiently and deftly casting the fly,
though the water was so clear and the sun so bright she could hardly
hope for much sport. But anglers live greatly on hope. Good Izaak
Walton knew when to stop fishing, for of one day he writes: "We went
to a good honest ale-house, and there played shovel-board half the day
... and we were as merry as they that fished." He was no slave to his
hobby, and owned it. Again I must confess that fishing with me is more
an excuse to get out in the country with something to do than the mere
catching of fish; possibly to others its chief charm lies in this. But
it does not do to analyse one's pleasures.
After Corhampton the country grew more open for a time, and at one spot
on the top of a hill that rose across the river I caught sight of a
quaint-looking, remote village with a fine church possessing a noble
tower that dominates the landscape. I could not understand why so small
and out-of-the-way a village (it seemed but a hamlet) should possess so
fine a church. A sudden desire took me to explore it, so I turned down
the narrow lane that led to the spot and climbed the opposite hill. I
pulled up at the first cottage I came to; there were only a few, but
this attracted my attention, being creeper-covered and with a porch
all overgrown with fragrant honeysuckle just as a poet would have it.
Then I noticed its name painted over its garden gate; this struck me as
strange, for it was "Naboth's Vineyard." As I was standing close by,
its owner came forth and bade me good-day; I think curiosity brought
him out to learn what a stranger did there, in a motor-car too, where
I should imagine strangers or motor-cars very seldom or hardly ever
appear. We got chatting together about nothing in particular; then I
asked why he had given his pretty cottage so strange a name. I thought
there might be some story connected with it. "Can't you guess?" said
he, smiling; "it's because so many people envy me it and would like
to possess it. I thought it a very suitable name"--and he was simply
the village blacksmith who had conceived this conceit. "Would you
care to come into the garden and see what a fine view I've from it?"
So I went into the garden and duly admired the view looking south far
away down the valley, then bathed in the glow of the afternoon sun,
and the garden I noticed was a pleasant one, gay with the bright,
old-fashioned, hardy flowers so familiar to the Elizabethan poets,
flowers that Mrs. Allingham has pictured to us in many of her charming
drawings of cottage homes. How I love those hardy flowers, never hurt
by the rain; they seem fuller of colour and far sweeter of scent to
me than the pampered, potted-out ones that people admire or profess
to admire to-day, and that are often ruined by a storm in an hour. I
thought at the moment I could live in that cottage contentedly, far
away from the world and its worries. I asked the name of the village
and learnt it was Soberton.
As I was quietly admiring the view, the blacksmith pointed me out a
field down below. "Some time ago," said he, "a stone coffin was dug up
there, and in it was a skeleton of a man embedded in cement, but no
one could make anything of it." A skeleton only, buried in cement in a
coffin, not in a churchyard--that is surely suggestive of mystery?
From the garden I had a good view of the tall flint and stone-built
church tower, and I expressed my surprise to find so fine a one there.
"I expect you don't know its history," said the blacksmith. I confessed
I did not, but would be pleased to hear it. "Well, it's like this," he
continued; "they say it was built by the life-savings of two servants,
a butler and a dairymaid, who were in service at an old mansion in the
valley that has long been pulled down. You can see on the tower, if
you care, the carved figures in stone of the butler and the maid, and
between them there is a skull to show, I am told, that the tower was
built after their death." So I went to inspect the tower and see what I
could make of the carvings. How many quaint legends you pick up on the
road if you only search out places remote where legends still linger.
There, true enough, high up in the tower, just under the parapet, I saw
plainly the two figures, opposite one another, of a butler with a key
in his hand and a dairymaid with a pail by her side. They were carved
with much skill and boldly, and appeared little the worse for the
storms of years that must have beaten upon them, exposed as they are to
all weathers. If sculptured stones could confirm a story, these stones
appeared to do so. Then at the foot of the tower my eye caught this
inscription:
This tower
Originally built by Servants
Was restored by Servants
1881.
I presume that whoever had that inscription placed there must have felt
there was some truth in the story, though, to me, I confess it seems an
improbable one. Still, what traveller would be so cruelly critical as
to doubt every legend he hears? In this case the curious carvings are
suggestive and certainly call for some story--else why are they there,
and not only there, but so prominently placed right in front of the
tower?