Part 4 (1/2)
For thee the bees shall quit their honey-comb!
For thee the elder's purple fruit shall grow!
For thee the pails with cream shall overflow!
But see yon teams returning from the town, Wind in the chalky wheel-ruts o'er the down: We now must haste; for if we longer stay, They'll meet us ere we leave the narrow way.
Another of Chichester's ill.u.s.trious sons is Archbishop Juxon, who stood by the side of Charles I. on the scaffold and bade farewell to him in the words ”You are exchanging from a temporal to an eternal crown--a good exchange.”
[Sidenote: HARDHAM'S SNUFF]
Yet another, of a very different type, is John Hardham. ”When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,” wrote Goldsmith of Sir Joshua Reynolds,
He s.h.i.+fted his trumpet, and only took snuff.
Had it not been for Chichester the great painter might never have had the second of these consolations, for the only snuff he liked was Hardham's No. 37, and Hardham was a native of Chichester. Before he became famous as a tobacconist, Hardham was, by night, a numberer of the pit for Garrick at Drury Lane. One day he happened to blend Dutch and rappee and poured the mixture into a drawer labelled 37. Garrick so liked the pinch of it which he chanced upon, that he introduced a reference to its merits in some of his comic parts, with the result that Hardham's little shop in Fleet Street soon became a resort, and no nose was properly furnished without No. 37. As Colton wrote, in his _Hypocrisy_:--
A name is all. From Garrick's breath a puff Of praise gave immortality to snuff; Since which each connoisseur a transient heaven Finds in each pinch of Hardham's 37.
The wealth that came to the tobacconist he left to the city of Chichester to relieve it of certain of its poor rates; and the citizens still magnify Hardham's name. He died in 1772 and had the good sense to restrict the expense of his funeral to ten pounds.
[Sidenote: WILKIE'S b.u.mPS]
Chichester was the scene of a pleasant incident recorded by Leslie in his _Autobiographical Recollections_. He was staying with Wilkie at Petworth, the guest of their patron, and the patron of so many other painters, Lord Egremont, of whom we shall learn more when Petworth is reached. They all drove over to Chichester after a visit to Goodwood.
Lord Egremont, says Leslie, ”had some business to transact at Chichester; but one of his objects was to show us a young girl, the daughter of an upholsterer, who was devoted to painting, and considered to be a genius by her friends. She was not at home; but her mother said she could soon be found, 'if his lords.h.i.+p would have the goodness to wait a short time.' The young lady soon appeared, breathless and exhausted with running. Lord Egremont mentioned our names, and she said, looking up to Wilkie with an expression of great respect, 'Oh, sir! it was but yesterday I had your head in my hands.' This puzzled him, as he did not know she was a phrenologist.
”'And what b.u.mps did you find?' said Lord Egremont.
”'The organ of veneration, very large,' was her answer; and Wilkie, making her a profound bow, said:
”'Madam, I have a great veneration for genius.'
”She showed us an unfinished picture from _The Bride of Lammermoor_. The figure of Lucy Ashton was completed, and, she told us, was the portrait of a young friend of hers; but Ravenswood was without a head, and this she explained by saying, 'there are no handsome men in Chichester. But,'
she continued, her countenance brightening, 'the Tenth are expected here soon.'” (The Tenth was noted for its handsome officers.)
Leslie does not carry the story farther. Whether poor Ravenswood ever gained his head; whether if he did so it was a military one, or, as a last resource, a Chichester one; and where the picture, if completed, now is, I do not know, nor have I succeeded in discovering any more of the young lady. But pa.s.sing through the streets of the town I was conscious of the absence of the Tenth.
Chichester is a perfect example of an English rural capital, thronged on market days with tilt carts, each bringing a farmer or farmer's wife, and rich in those well-stored ironmongers' shops that one never sees elsewhere. But it is more than this: it is also a cathedral town, with the ever present sense of domination by the cloth even when the cloth is not visible. Chichester has its roughs and its public houses (Mr. Hudson in his _Nature in Downland_ gives them a caustic chapter); it also has its race-week every July, and barracks within hail; yet it is always a cathedral town. Whatever noise may be in the air you know in your heart that quietude is its true characteristic. One might say that above the loudest street cries you are continually conscious of the silence of the close.
[Ill.u.s.tration: _Chichester Cathedral._]
[Sidenote: CHICHESTER CATHEDRAL]
Chichester's cathedral is not among the most beautiful or the most interesting, but there is none cooler. It dates from the eleventh century and contains specimens of almost every kind of church architecture; but the spire is comparatively new, having been built in 1866 to take the place of its predecessor, which suddenly dropped like an extinguisher five years before. Seen from the Channel it rises, a friendly landmark (white or gray, according to the clouds), and while walking on the Downs above or on the plain around, one is frequently pleased to catch an unexpected glimpse of its tapering beauty. I have heard it said that Chichester is the only English cathedral that is visible at sea.
Within, the cathedral is disappointing, offering one neither richness on the one hand nor the charm of pure severity on the other. A cathedral must either be plain or coloured, and Chichester comes short of both ideals; it has no colour and no purity. Its proportions are, however, exquisite, and it is impossible to remain here long without pa.s.sing under the spell of the stone. Yet had it, one feels, only radiance, how much finer it would be.
For the completest contrast to the vastness of the cathedral one may cross into North Street and enter the portal of the toy church of St.