white hairHis hair went snow-white early in life.
His hair went snow-white early in life.
His hair went snow-white early in life.
He is still outwardly the same. One could hardly detect a single point of change in him, save that his face is more furrowed and his eyes deeper set. His hair went snow-white early in life. Generations of Pettingdales have been subject to the same peculiarity. Thus it is that the long step from forty to sixty-five has wrought little difference in Roger Pettingdale. His body is as erect, his step as firm, his voice as sonorous as ever. He was ever a well-known figure at all the county markets and agricultural meetings, and it might be twenty-five years agone for all the change that one cansee in him. Among other men he was always noticeable, with his tall figure, his white hair, his clean-shaven, well-cut face, and that wide-rimmed silk hat which he always affected. As he moved amongst the crowd I have heard men say, "Who is that?" and others answer, "Don't you know him? Why, surely everybody knowshim? He's Roger Pettingdale."
He is elected on all the local bodies. Thus he is a guardian of the poor, a member of the School Board, vice-chairman of the County Council, and the people's churchwarden at the parish church. There is no man amongst all those he meets in these capacities whose words are listened to with more respect. That solid weight, that hallmark of sound judgment which always attends upon sheer common-sense, is apparent in every opinion he utters. He forms his judgments first, and speaks afterwards. While other men are impulsively throwing themselves into useless controversy on this or that vexed question, Roger Pettingdale is silently weighing theprosandconsof the matter in his own mind; and when he speaks there is usually nothing more to be said. He chops no logic; he simply argues with the sledge-hammer of common-sense, backed up by the blunt, uncompromising sincerity of an honest and fair-dealing mind. His tolerance, his breadth of vision, his power of seeing the other side of the question, his scorn of all shams and pretences, have made his name a password for integrity and sound judgment. "You will always get a fair hearing from Roger Pettingdale," people say. "Does Roger Pettingdale think so? Oh, then, there must be something in it."
In his home life, in the control of his farm, in his own daily affairs, there is the same straightforwardness, the same sincerity, the same well-balanced judgment and acumen. "There never was a year, as I remember, when we didn't have plenty of hay to begin conditioning on," said one of his labourers the other day. "Now, at the next farm they've never got enough." That is only a small instance of the perfection of method which marks every department of the prosperous farm.
At home he is essentially a plain man, this sturdy farmer. There is no nonsense about him, although he can claim blood with one of the oldest families in the county. Yet he has a proper pride, in a manly, direct kind of way, as you shall see. He has had four children, two boys and two girls, in giving birth to the youngest of whom his wife died. James, the eldest, is his right hand in the farm management, and will some day be head of the family, as the Pettingdales have succeeded, son to father, for generations out of mind. Mary, the second, you shall hear more of anon. Frank, the third, my old playmate, early in life took the fancy that he would like to be a soldier. Roger Pettingdale has ever been a wise and a tolerant father, studying well the nature of each of his children. He unerringly knew Frank's proud and stubborn character.
"You want to be a soldier?" he said. "Well, I could have wished it otherwise, Frank. It would have been a pleasure to me to see you settle down on the farm. But we will not argue the point. Let it stand for twelve months, and then talk to me about it."
Twelve months did not change Frank's resolve. When he mentioned it again, a drawn look passed over Roger Pettingdale's face for a moment—a look of keen pain—for he loved his children. Then he drew himself up to his full height.
"You are still of the same mind, Frank! Then I have nothing more to say. I am not going to attempt to dictate to you what your calling should be. You have to live your own life, and as you make your bed you must lie on it. Remember that, my lad. If you decide to go as a soldier, you shall go in a proper fashion, lad. You shall have your commission. No son of mine shall enter the ranks."
And have his commission Frank did. I looked at the tablet in the old church the other day with a surging heart. It is a brass tablet, the lettering of which has been recently renovated.
TO THE MEMORY OFLIEUTENANT FRANK PETTINGDALE,WHO FELL IN ACTION IN THEBATTLE OF TEL-EL-KEBIR.
That was all. There was no vainglorious recounting of the brave deed in theperformance of which Frank was cut down. He fell "in action." That was all. It was Roger Pettingdale all over—simple and direct and manly. And were not the laconic words far more eloquent than all the ornate elegiacs that poets might have written, just as Roger Pettingdale's silent grief when the news reached him was far more eloquent than all the passionate outbursts of frenzied sorrow that one could conceive?
The fourth child, Clara, as I have already said, sleeps in the churchyard. She died when she was a fair-haired girl of ten—as bright and promising a maiden as one could wish to see. But she was ever fragile, like her mother, and suddenly she faded away, leaving a great gap in the home life at the Pettingdale farm.
As to Mary, the second child, she was nineteen years of age, and newly returned from school, when Edward Leigh, the son of old Squire Leigh, of the Hall, came home from his travels round the world. These two, who had only distantly known each other as children, met for the first time after many years—she a sweet-looking, fresh-coloured girl, in the first blush of womanhood; and he a manly, well-set young fellow with a pleasant, sincere face and straightforward blue eyes. It was the old story! Twang goes the bow of the roguish little archer, and to some heart or another the world all at once becomes rose-colour. The old story! They saw each other on a Sunday morning across the church. She, sitting in the Pettingdale pew, mentally noted that there was a young man at the Squire's side who could be no other than his newly returned son; and he, from his corner underneath the dingy, ponderous coat-of-arms of the Leigh family, looked upon her in her simple dress of white. The sun, striking through the window to her right, glinted upon her brown hair, which always curled so prettily about her forehead. He thought, as he looked, that she was the sweetest, daintiest maiden he had ever seen, and he fell in love with her.
He made no secret of his passion. Beating about the bush was entirely foreign to Edward Leigh. The choleric old Squire went off into a fit of apoplectic rage when he heard how things stood. The veins swelled in his forehead, and that pugnacious under-lip of his stood out and drew itself over the upper lip and the teeth with a tight grip. But Edward had all the old Leigh blood in him. "I love her, father," he said quietly, looking the Squire straight in the face, and the old man's heart sank within him as he met the steady glance of those blue eyes. Fits of passion, threats, fiery denunciations—they were all of no avail. Edward was never once other than respectful. He would stand with shoulders squared and head uplifted, bearing the storm in perfect calm and silence, and then would look his father in the face and say—"Father, I love her"; and the Squire would clench his fist and march to and fro, furiously stamping his feet upon the floor.
love"Father, I love her."
"Father, I love her."
"Father, I love her."
In one culminating fit of choleric rage the Squire rode over to the farm. He found Roger Pettingdale in the corn-field, looking at the growing wheat.
forgive"Forgive me!"
"Forgive me!"
"Forgive me!"
"Look here, Pettingdale," he burst forth fiercely. "This nonsense must be stopped. Are you an idiot, that you cannot see what is going on, or are you in the scheme to entrap my——"
Roger Pettingdale turned round upon him.
"I beg your pardon, Squire Leigh?" he said quietly, as one who had not heard aright.
"Tut! Nonsense!" retorted the Squire. "Don't 'beg-your-pardon' me! You know full well what I mean. Are you blind? I say it must be stopped! You know full well that that precious son of mine has gone stark mad over that chit of a girl of yours!"
"And what of that, Squire Leigh?" replied Roger Pettingdale, drawing himself to his full height and looking at the Squire from underneath his heavy eyebrows. "If that precious son of yours has gone stark mad over my daughter, what of that?"
"Why, this," thundered the Squire: "that it must be stopped!"
"Very well, why don't you stop it?" replied Roger Pettingdale.
The retort, perfectly cool and natural, laid bare all the Squire's impotence at one stroke, and drove him well-nigh to frenzy. His eyes shot fire, and those veins in his forehead swelled as though they would burst.
"It is not my daughter who is coming to the Hall after your son," Roger Pettingdale went on. "It is your son who is coming here after my daughter. You seem to forget that point. You say it must be stopped. And I repeat—Why don't you stop it?"
"It is as I thought," shouted the enraged Squire. "You are all in it—all ofyou. All in the scheme to entrap him! A pretty plot, don't you call it, for a man who poses as a Christian?"
In a blind access of fury he took a step forward and raised his riding-whip. And then his shaking arm fell to his side, for Roger Pettingdale had laid a hand upon his shoulder, and was confronting him with grave, kindly, pitying eyes.
"You are in anger, Squire Leigh," he said, with simple dignity, "else I should take your words as an insult. Be sure that the Pettingdales have not fallen so low, nor their womenkind either, that they need to trap the son of Squire Leigh. But I tell you this, as man to man: if your son truly loves my daughter, and if she loves him in return, I will put no bar before my child's happiness; no, not for you, nor for all the Leighs in the world. We come of as good a stock as you, Squire! Remember that! More money and more land maybe you have—but not more pride of family. I care naught for your money or your land. Thank God! I have prospered beyond all expectation. And I tell you again, straight to your face, if your son comes to me and asks for my daughter's hand, and I find it is for her happiness, I shall say 'Yes.'"
"I shall disinherit him!" burst forth the Squire; "he shall not have a penny—not a brass farthing!"
"I shall tell him," continued Roger Pettingdale, "that if he would win my daughter, he must first make a position for himself in the world, independently of aught you can do for or against him; and that shall be the test of his sincerity."
Then he turned away, and the Squire, his face livid with passion, marched off, savagely cutting at the wheat-ears with his riding-whip. And when he mounted his horse at the corner of the field, he dug his spurs so viciously into her that she bounded and reared, and almost threw him.
Well, the long and short of it was that Edward Leigh was not found wanting in the test which was imposed upon him.
"You are quite right, sir," he said to Roger Pettingdale; "the condition is a reasonable one. I ask for nothing more than the chance of proving that I am in earnest."
He went to London, studied under his father's old college friend, John Wetherell, the well-known Queen's Counsel, and in five years was making fair headway in the courts as a barrister. And the strange part of it was that the choleric old Squire—who has a good heart underneath his rough exterior—seeing his son's name in the papers from time to time, felt his paternal pride rising within him despite his stubborn resentment. Perhaps, too, he felt lonely in his old age. At all events, he went over to the farm one day, and asked to see Mary.
"I shall fight against it no longer, my dear," he said, holding out his hand. "The lad has proved his grit, and the woman who can call forth such steady love in a man is more than worthy of being mistress of the Hall. I am an old man, and have no time left for bitternesses. Forgive me, and you will find me as staunch in friendship as you have found me frank in enmity."
Mary is now Mary Leigh, of Leigh Hall, and a sweeter, gentler, more winsome mistress you could not find in the whole land. You may often see the old Squire leaning upon her shoulder—a bent, white-haired figure—as they walk in the grounds.
Among all the seasons of the year, I think there is none that Roger Pettingdale loves so well as the time of harvest. You may see him standing at the gateway, looking in meditation down the long shimmer and sheen of the golden wheat-field as the wind ripples over it.
"I love to gaze at fields white with corn," he said to me once. "They seem to breathe rich promises of that full fruition to which our own lives shall come if we live them well and uprightly."
At the last harvest thanksgiving service in the village church I was present for the sake of old times, and from my place behind Roger Pettingdale I saw him lost in meditation, with eyes fixed upon the chancel window. And when he stood up to sing he was still rapt in thought; but suddenly he joined in the sweet old hymn so lustily and with such a full heart that it did me good to hear him.
"The valleys stand so thick with cornThat even they are singing."
By the Ven. Archdeacon Diggle, M.A.
RReading aloud is more commonly regarded as an accomplishment than an art. In truth, it is both. It is an art in that it cannot be left to its own guidance, but requires both an acquaintance with rules and familiarity with their practice to bring it to perfection. It is an accomplishment in that it is a means of completing our equipment for happy social life. Good reading yields not only profit but pleasure to others. It is one means of throwing brightness into home-life to gather the children together and read really well to them. And what a sweet delight it is in the ward of a hospital, or among the inmates of a workhouse, or by the bedside of some dearly loved invalid, to be able, by reading in soft, gentle, refreshing tones, to charm away the monotony and the weariness, perhaps for awhile to relieve even the pain, of the lonely and the suffering! We might shed sunshine into the darkness of many a life if, instead of spending our leisure hours inennuion ourselves, we devoted them to reading aloud to others.
Reading aloud is more commonly regarded as an accomplishment than an art. In truth, it is both. It is an art in that it cannot be left to its own guidance, but requires both an acquaintance with rules and familiarity with their practice to bring it to perfection. It is an accomplishment in that it is a means of completing our equipment for happy social life. Good reading yields not only profit but pleasure to others. It is one means of throwing brightness into home-life to gather the children together and read really well to them. And what a sweet delight it is in the ward of a hospital, or among the inmates of a workhouse, or by the bedside of some dearly loved invalid, to be able, by reading in soft, gentle, refreshing tones, to charm away the monotony and the weariness, perhaps for awhile to relieve even the pain, of the lonely and the suffering! We might shed sunshine into the darkness of many a life if, instead of spending our leisure hours inennuion ourselves, we devoted them to reading aloud to others.
Reading aloud is good for ourselves both physically and morally. It is good morally, for if we never read anything unfit for reading aloud we shall not be likely to read anything morally deteriorating. And physically, reading aloud is a benignant exercise. It widens the chest, opens the lungs, strengthens the throat, and does good to all the breathing organs. It is a mistake to suppose that using the voice weakens it. Abuse or misuse of the vocal organs, as of any other organs, injures them; but by proper use and exercise they are strengthened and improved. Speakers and preachers have bad throats not because they use their throat too much, but because they use it badly. They force and torment it, instead of training it to natural action and giving it free, full play. And who shall blame them? At school they were taught to spell and mind their stops; but how to breathe and manage the voice when reading, they probably were not taught a single rule. In many instances teachers themselves are wholly ignorant of the art and therefore incapable of teaching it. And so it comes to pass that, unless either outward circumstance or innate common-sense turn our attention in later life to the management of the vocal organs, we never learn to read aloud without weariness and with pleasure. It is mainly through lack of early training that, of all useful and delightful accomplishments, the art of reading aloud is one of the least practised and most rare.
Diggle(Photo: Russell and Sons, Baker Street, W.)ARCHDEACON DIGGLE.
(Photo: Russell and Sons, Baker Street, W.)ARCHDEACON DIGGLE.
(Photo: Russell and Sons, Baker Street, W.)
ARCHDEACON DIGGLE.
Yet it is an art which, in some degree, may be acquired by the majority of people; very many could, by a little training and perseverance, even excel in it. Of course, the art admits of many degrees of excellence. But without reaching the splendid summits of the art, attainable only by the highly gifted few, ordinary persons may learn toread sufficiently well to gratify both themselves and others, if they will take pains to learn and practise a few simple rules.
The first requirement is to master the physics of the art: to learn to breathe in through the nostrils and out through the mouth, never to speak on an inflowing breath, quickly to fill the lungs and slowly to empty them, never to gasp or strain after sound, not to attempt the higher notes until the lower have been completely mastered, to rely more on the lower than the higher notes, to teach the lips and front portion of the mouth to do their fair share of work equally with the larynx and the vocal cords. A moustache is an impediment to easy and distinct reading. It hinders the air from passing in free, full flow up the nostrils, and it troubles the waves of sound as they issue from the mouth; causing indistinctness, more or less flat and thick, in enunciation.
Clearness of enunciation ranks next in importance after easy, natural, flexible production of voice, and largely depends on it, for there can be no clear, crisp, distinct enunciation of words, unless the tools by which words are made, viz. the organs of voice, are kept sharp and well burnished. Moreover, for the attainment of limpid and finely articulated enunciation careful training is required both in the melody and modulation of sounds.
Precision and beauty of enunciation are much assisted by habitual practice of the graduated series of all the tones from the keynote to its octave. Do not sing when you are reading, but, in order to read well, first learn to sing; otherwise your reading will be flat and monotonous, without light and shade, instead of being fresh, richly modulated, and melodious.
The next requirement of good reading is to learn the relative value of the letters, and the right handling of the syllables, of which words are composed.
This study is both interesting and attractive, for, as Plato observes, letters themselves have a clear significance. The letterris expressive of motion, the lettersdandtof binding and rest, the letterlof smoothness,nof inwardness, the lettereof length and the letteroof roundness.[2]Letters run in families, and each family has its own characteristic significance of sound. Some letters belong to the lips, others to the throat, others employ the whole mouth. Vowels and final consonants are the letters which demand most care and support in good reading. For the most part, vowels should be rich and full, and the final consonant well sustained.
[2]Cf.Jowett's Plato, I. 311.
[2]Cf.Jowett's Plato, I. 311.
If letters in themselves are expressive and significant, collocations of letters in syllables and words are clearly more significant still. "By various degrees of strength or weakness, emphasis or pitch, length or shortness, they become the natural expressions both of the stronger and the finer parts of human feeling and thought." To read well, therefore, it is necessary to give intelligent and ready heed to the relative weight of words, to notice whether consonants are massed together to increase their density, or vowels are freely interspersed to leaven and make them light. True enunciation largely depends on a careful study of the natural formation of words and a right appreciation of the proportionate value of their several syllables.
Reading, however, is frequently spoiled by pedantry and exaggerated minuteness. In seeking to avoid slovenliness readers often fall into foppery. Good reading goes at an easy pace, it is neither too fast nor too slow; it neither counts the letters nor omits them, neither jumbles syllables together nor anatomises words. The good reader reads so that intelligent listeners can spell his words, but he does not read as if spelling them himself. He avoids the extremes both of negligence and nicety, and constantly remembers that whatever is overdone is badly done. Avoid ostentation. No rule in reading is more fundamental than this.
Near akin to ostentation is the taint of false and histrionic emphasis. Colourless reading, bad though it be, is better than tawdry reading. Especially in all reading of a religious or sacred character should affectation and dramatic artifices be reverently avoided.
To read the Bible in church as if playing a part on the stage is as inappropriate and irreligious as to read like one in haste to catch a train.
Each kind of subject demands its own proper style in reading. Prose shouldnot be read like poetry; nor all kinds either of prose or poetry alike. As in writing, each species should be dressed in language from its own wardrobe; so in reading, each several kind should receive its own appropriate tone, and travel at its own appropriate speed. To read everything alike is to read nothing—or at most only one thing—well.
charmingCharming away the monotony and the weariness.
Charming away the monotony and the weariness.
Charming away the monotony and the weariness.
Great authors are by no means invariably good readers, even of their own productions. Lord Tennyson read some of his own glorious poems beautifully; but others he read either droningly or with too much singsong. Dickens read his own works with wonderful power and realisation. Wordsworth read his own verse admirably; but we are told that neither Coleridge nor Southey could read verse well: "They read as if crying or wailing lugubriously."
Reading, therefore, is an art which doubtless requires, for the attainment of excellence, some degree of histrionic gifts—imagination, imitation, fervour, and passion.
Similarly with oratory and authorship. Both these arts are distinct from that of reading; as each of these again is distinct from the other.
It is curious, indeed, how few among great authors are great orators; or, among great orators, great authors. The gifts which tell in writing—condensation, terseness, finish—are not the gifts which tell most in speaking. In speaking, the essentials are clearness of enunciation, sympathy with the audience, copiousness of illustration, directness of statement, uninvolved reasoning. The merits which impart value to a book—wealth of fact, niceness in balancing opposingconsiderations, delicacy of assertion, depth and sweep of argument—may easily become ineffective in the delivery of a speech. Hence, therefore, whereas a good speaker is occasionally a good writer, owing to his rare combination of different orders of talent, it more frequently happens that the one set of talents is given to one man to enrich them in seclusion, and the other to another man to use them with publicity.
In like manner with reading; it is an art by itself. It is natural to suppose that no one could possibly read an author's works so well as the author's self, because no one can understand them so intimately as their own creator. Yet experience proves this to be not the case; and for a reason which at first sight is not wholly apparent. It is just because they are his own that, as a rule, he cannot read them well. He may have a richly cultivated voice, clear enunciation, a varied power of modulation; he may even be able to read the works of others well, yet be a failure in reading what he himself has written. Why is this? Partly, perhaps, it is due to an unavoidable self-consciousness in reading his own works; and self-consciousness is the ruin of good reading. "Forget thyself" is a necessary condition of good reading. Partly, perhaps, it is due to over-absorption in the memory of sensations and sentiments which overpowered him when he wrote in the solitude of his chamber, but which are somewhat unnatural and overstrained for exhibition before a concourse of auditors. But probably the principal reason is that one of the greatest charms of good reading arises from the co-operation of two spirits toward one end—the spirit of the author and the spirit of the reader. The reader of another's works seeks actively to express the spirit of his author, yet unintentionally he is expressing his own spirit also. The author enters into him and he throws himself into the author; his reading, therefore, is the union, the marriage, the interpenetration and expression of two spirits—the author's and his own. However interesting, therefore, and delightful it may be to hear an author read his own works, yet is there always lacking the dash and force and suggestiveness produced when a great author is interpreted by a great reader. The author merely reproduces his original meaning in what he wrote; the reader, through the agency of his own independent personality, idealises and diversifies that meaning.
Idealisation is one of the most beautiful effects of the fine art of reading. The most ordinary poem or piece of prose, when idealised by an accomplished artist in reading, grows lovely and sweet. And one way of learning to read well ourselves is to sit at the feet of some of these great masters of reading. Until we have heard a great reader read it is next to impossible to conceive what a fine and noble art true reading is. On the other hand, we can never become good readers by merely listening to others, any more than we can become good musicians by hearing others play.
In the art of reading, others may be our models; none but ourselves can be our makers. Listening to others may show us how the thing can best be done, but without doing the thing ourselves the thing can never be truly learned by us. Sometimes, indeed, listening to others has an effect quite the opposite of a model for imitation. "Pausanias tells us of an ancient player on the harp who was wont to make his scholars go to hear one who played badly that they might learn to hate his discords and false measures." In like manner, one way of learning to read well is to hear others read badly.
The art of reading aloud culminates in the expression of the spiritual through the medium of the physical. As sculpture aspires to express its ideals in stone, and painting in colour, and music in sound, so reading embodies its ideals in uttered words. A well-trained voice, clearness of enunciation, rhythm and flexibility of articulation—these are the physical framework of the art of reading aloud. Without first acquiring these the reader is as impotent as the painter without colour or the sculptor without stone. But the physics of reading are nothing more than its material framework. Unless the reader is inspired with ideals, reading will never rise to the dignity and glory of an art with him. He may be as a house-painter with his brush, or a mason with his stone—an industrious and useful artificer, but not an artist in his work.
miget
By J. A. Reid.
The subject of church architecture is ever a fascinating one. Millions of money and an immense amount of time and labour have been spent in erecting places of worship, some of which are magnificent structures capable of seating several thousands. On the other hand, small, humble edifices sometimes suffice to meet the requirements of the worshippers; and it is with these that we here propose to deal.
Which of the midget churches is the smallest it is somewhat difficult to say; but it is believed that the smallest church in England is the truly miniature church of Lullington, in Sussex. It is a primitive and quaint building, constructed of flint with stone quoins, with a roof of red tiles. It can boast of a little weather-boarded turret at its west end; but its bell does not toll now, and the birds of the air have long since found the turret a convenient nesting-place. The church is but sixteen feet square. The pulpit is a pew, with panelled sides and door, and the furniture is of the plainest. Five, narrow, diamond-paned windows throw a scanty light upon the interior, in which there is accommodation for thirty persons—quite sufficient for the population of the village.
Lullington(Photo: H. J. Unwin, Hailsham.)LULLINGTON CHURCH.(Sixteen feet square.)
(Photo: H. J. Unwin, Hailsham.)LULLINGTON CHURCH.(Sixteen feet square.)
(Photo: H. J. Unwin, Hailsham.)
LULLINGTON CHURCH.
(Sixteen feet square.)
A somewhat larger edifice is the very interesting church of Wythburn, in Cumberland, the dimensions of which are—nave (length), thirty-nine feet; height of walls, ten feet; and width, fifteen feet. This was the original church, erected about one hundred and sixty years ago, and is of the simplest description. The roof is constructed of old ships' timber, and the windows are square holes with wooden frames. The chancel is eighteen feet long by fifteen feet by ten feet. The beautiful little east window is by Henry Holiday, and was put in to the memory of the late vicar. What a magnificent site for a church! The poets have thus expressed themselves with regard to this humble but beautifully situated church:—
Canon H. D. Rawnsley wrote:
"We cannot stay—for life is but an Inn,A halfway house—and, lo! the graves how near!Yet mighty minds have hither come for cheerBefore the upward path they dared begin.Here Gray the pilgrim rested pale and thin,Here Wilson laughed, and Wordsworth murmured here.Here Coleridge mused, and ere he crossed the mereHence Arnold viewed the Goal he hoped to win.And we who would Helvellyn's height essay,Or climb towards the gateway of the moundWhere Dunmail died because his realm was fair,May join their gracious company who foundEarth's beauty made Life's Inn a House of Prayer,And speed, refreshed of soul, upon our way."
2 churchesWythburn Church as compared with St. Paul's Cathedral.(Photo: T. Dumble, Keswick.)WYTHBURN CHURCH.(Thirteen yards long, five yards wide.)
Wythburn Church as compared with St. Paul's Cathedral.(Photo: T. Dumble, Keswick.)WYTHBURN CHURCH.(Thirteen yards long, five yards wide.)
Wythburn Church as compared with St. Paul's Cathedral.
(Photo: T. Dumble, Keswick.)
WYTHBURN CHURCH.
(Thirteen yards long, five yards wide.)
Wordsworth, too, said:
"If Wythburn's modest House of Prayer,As lowly as the lowliest dwelling,Had, with its belfry's humble stock,A little pair that hang in air,Been mistress also of a clock(And one, too, not hung in crazy plight),Twelve strokes that clock would have been tellingUnder the brow of old Helvellyn."
And H. Coleridge:
"Humble it is, and meek, and very low,And speaks its purpose by a single bell:But God Himself, and He alone, can knowIf spiry temples please Him half so well."
We have given two instances of very small churches: let us now refer to a midget chapel. At Crawshawbooth, a village near Burnley, there is an extremely interesting diminutive place of worship known as the Friends' Meeting-House, an old-fashioned building covered with ivy, and environed by a well-cared-for burial ground. It contains half a dozen oak benches, on which the worshippers sit. Though these benches are sufficient to provide seating accommodation for about sixty, the attendance is rarely more than six. John Bright once worshipped here, walking from Rochdale, a distance of twelve miles. This quaint little place is naturally regarded with much interest by visitors.
It is interesting to point out that there is another Quaker meeting-house in the hamlet of Jordans, in Buckinghamshire, which is, if anything, smaller than that already referred to. It has been called the Shrine of Quakerism, for early in June every yeara gathering of Quakers takes place. Here lie the remains of William Penn, one of the greatest of Quakers. At a cottage in the vicinity Milton wrote his "Paradise Lost."
friends(Photo: R. W. Lord, Little Lever, near Bolton.)FRIENDS' MEETING-HOUSE, CRAWSHAWBOOTH.(Containing six oak benches to accommodate sixty worshippers.)
(Photo: R. W. Lord, Little Lever, near Bolton.)FRIENDS' MEETING-HOUSE, CRAWSHAWBOOTH.(Containing six oak benches to accommodate sixty worshippers.)
(Photo: R. W. Lord, Little Lever, near Bolton.)
FRIENDS' MEETING-HOUSE, CRAWSHAWBOOTH.
(Containing six oak benches to accommodate sixty worshippers.)
To revert to churches, Kilpeck Church is well worth referring to as being a lovely little place of worship. The nave is thirty-six feet by twenty, and the chancel seventeen by sixteen feet ten inches, the total length being sixty-eight feet and the average breadth about sixteen feet. It is built upon a Saxon foundation, and Saxon remains are still to be seen—notably, a "holy-water" stoup that must be one thousand or eleven hundred years old. It is not possible to do justice to this beautiful church in a few words, but the accompanying photograph will give an idea of the quaintness and beauty of the structure. The sculpture is remarkably interesting.
nave(Photo: Poulton and Sons, Lee.)KILPECK CHURCH.(Nave thirty-six feet by twenty.)
(Photo: Poulton and Sons, Lee.)KILPECK CHURCH.(Nave thirty-six feet by twenty.)
(Photo: Poulton and Sons, Lee.)
KILPECK CHURCH.
(Nave thirty-six feet by twenty.)
An article on midget places of worship would be incomplete without a reference to the little lath-and-plaster church of Essex, consisting of nave, chancel, and a small turret. Hazeleigh Church, as it is named, stands in the near vicinity of Hazeleigh Hall—once the home of the Essex family of the Alleynes, one of whom founded the College of God's Giftat Dulwich. This little church has thus been described by the Rev. H. R. Wadmore, sometime curate:—
"... A little church beside a woodSecurely sheltered from the sweeping blast;So quiet, so secure, it seems to beA very type of rest and all that's still."
Chilcombe(Photo: R. D. Barrett.)CHILCOMBE CHURCH.(Twelve yards long.)
(Photo: R. D. Barrett.)CHILCOMBE CHURCH.(Twelve yards long.)
(Photo: R. D. Barrett.)
CHILCOMBE CHURCH.
(Twelve yards long.)
This little church of Hazeleigh, owing to its simple character, differs but slightly from the roadside cottages. It has been styled "the meanest church in Essex," owing to its unpretentious character.
cave(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)THE CAVE CHURCH AT LEDAIG, NEAR OBAN.(The most primitive church in the kingdom.)
(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)THE CAVE CHURCH AT LEDAIG, NEAR OBAN.(The most primitive church in the kingdom.)
(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)
THE CAVE CHURCH AT LEDAIG, NEAR OBAN.
(The most primitive church in the kingdom.)
A pleasing little church is that of Chilcombe, near Bridport, Dorsetshire. Chilcombe is mentioned in the Doomsday Book, and at one time was the property of the Knight Hospitallers of St. John. The existing church dates from the thirteenth century. Itis in the Roman style, and possesses a good Norman font. The length of the nave is twenty-two by fourteen feet, the chancel being thirteen by eleven feet. The owner of the parish and the patron of the living is Admiral the Hon. M. H. Nelson.
groveGROVE CHURCH, NEAR LEIGHTON BUZZARD.(Capable of seating fifty people.)
GROVE CHURCH, NEAR LEIGHTON BUZZARD.(Capable of seating fifty people.)
GROVE CHURCH, NEAR LEIGHTON BUZZARD.
(Capable of seating fifty people.)
Another remarkably small church is that of St. Peter, on the Castle Rise, at Cambridge, its dimensions being twenty-five by sixteen feet. It is of Norman architecture.
England by no means possesses all the diminutive churches and chapels, and a very quaint and interesting church is that of Ledaig, near Oban. It is unsectarian, and its congregation numbers, on the average, twenty-five. It was founded by John Campbell, who was more familiarly known as "The Bard of Benderlock." He converted a natural cavern in the cliffs of Ledaig into a place of worship. A portion of a trunk of a tree, on which Robert Bruce is said to have rested, serves as a table and reading-desk. Trunks of trees around the sides of the cavern serve as seats for the worshippers. Mr. Campbell officiated as minister for many years to a band of faithful Highland worshippers in this curious church. Mr. Campbell was a remarkable personality. He was postmaster of Ledaig, and he also gained a considerable reputation as a poet. He was a much respected man, and his memory is dear to many.
Margaret(Photo: A. A. Inglis, Edinburgh.)ST. MARGARET'S CHAPEL, EDINBURGH CASTLE.(For some time used as a powder magazine.)
(Photo: A. A. Inglis, Edinburgh.)ST. MARGARET'S CHAPEL, EDINBURGH CASTLE.(For some time used as a powder magazine.)
(Photo: A. A. Inglis, Edinburgh.)
ST. MARGARET'S CHAPEL, EDINBURGH CASTLE.
(For some time used as a powder magazine.)
I would like to refer to a very interesting midget church at Grove, near Leighton Buzzard, which I had the pleasure of visiting recently. It is the smallest in the county, and is a gable-roofed, barn-like fabric, with a dooron the north side. In 1883 the little church was restored throughout, the fine old-fashioned square pews being replaced by open wooden seats, and it is now capable of seating about fifty people. Formerly the edifice contained a "three-decker"—clerk's desk, reading-desk, and pulpit combined. The churchyard contains many graves, but only one tombstone (eighteenth century). The dimensions of the church are—length, twenty-nine and a half feet; width, eighteen feet; height, about forty feet; in all probability, the church was formerly larger than at present. Grove is generally considered to be one of the smallest parishes in England, and one could hardly conceive of a smaller. It consists practically of a farmhouse and a lock-keeper's cottage.
templarST. ROBERT'S CHAPEL, KNARESBOROUGH.(Showing figure of a Knight Templar cut in the rock.)(Photo: G. E. Arnold, Knaresborough.)
ST. ROBERT'S CHAPEL, KNARESBOROUGH.(Showing figure of a Knight Templar cut in the rock.)(Photo: G. E. Arnold, Knaresborough.)
ST. ROBERT'S CHAPEL, KNARESBOROUGH.
(Showing figure of a Knight Templar cut in the rock.)
(Photo: G. E. Arnold, Knaresborough.)
We must not forget that at the top of Edinburgh Castle is the historical diminutive chapel of St. Margaret's, which was the private chapel of the pious Margaret, Queen of Malcolm III., during her residence in the castle. Until very recently it had been quite lost sight of, having been converted into a powder magazine and fallen into disrepair. In 1853, however, it was "discovered" and put into an efficient state of repair. It is considered to be the oldest and smallest chapel in Scotland, its dimensions being sixteen feet six inches by ten feet sixteen inches. The semicircular chancel is separated from the nave by a well-carved double-round arch, decorated with Norman zigzag mouldings. It is too small to be made available for divine service for the troops quarteredin the castle, and the only use that it is now put to is for occasional baptisms and morning Communion.
small(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)SMALL CHURCH AT ST. ANDREW, GREENSTED, NEAR ONGAR.(Believed to include the only remaining portion of a Saxon wooden church.)
(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)SMALL CHURCH AT ST. ANDREW, GREENSTED, NEAR ONGAR.(Believed to include the only remaining portion of a Saxon wooden church.)
(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)
SMALL CHURCH AT ST. ANDREW, GREENSTED, NEAR ONGAR.
(Believed to include the only remaining portion of a Saxon wooden church.)
There are several very small places of worship which are now, alas! in ruins. At Iona, for instance, on the west coast of Scotland, are the remains of an extremely small chapel, known as St. Oran's Chapel. It is very near Iona Cathedral. It is constructed of red granite, and its external measurements are sixty feet by twenty-two feet. It is now roofless, and is very old. This little chapel is believed to have been built by Queen Margaret in 1080. Its architecture is Romanesque, and it has one low entrance. This humble edifice is interesting inasmuch as within its walls is the tomb of Sir Walter Scott's "Lord of the Isles," the friend of Bruce.
diminutive(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)DIMINUTIVE CHAPEL AT POINT IN VIEW, NEAR EXMOUTH.(Containing an organ made by the pastor.)
(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)DIMINUTIVE CHAPEL AT POINT IN VIEW, NEAR EXMOUTH.(Containing an organ made by the pastor.)
(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)
DIMINUTIVE CHAPEL AT POINT IN VIEW, NEAR EXMOUTH.
(Containing an organ made by the pastor.)
There is another tiny barn-like edifice at Greenloaning, near Dunblane. The little church is situated adjacent to a farmhouse, and seems to have been erected for the benefit of the farm-workers. It is remarkably small. The scenery in the vicinity is magnificent, and the church is regarded with much interest by tourists.
St. Anthony's Chapel is another small building also in ruins. It is interesting owing to its historic surroundings, being in the near vicinity of Holyrood Palace. It comprises a hermitage, sixteen feet long, twelve feet wide, and eight feet high, and a Gothic chapel forty-three feet long, eighteen feet broad, and eighteen feet high.
One of the most remarkable of these little churches is that at Knaresborough, in Yorkshire, which is a very queer little chapel elegantly hewn out of the solid rock, the roof being beautifully ribbed and groined in the Gothic style. At the back of the altar is a large niche, where an image used to stand, and on one side of it is a place for the "holy-water" basin. There are also figures of three heads—designed, it is believed, for an emblematical allusion to the order of the monks at the once neighbouring priory. Possibly they were cut by some of the monks. The order was known as Sanctæ Trinitatis. A few yards away there is another head. It has been surmised that this is a representation of St. John the Baptist, to whom the chapel is supposed to be dedicated. There is a cavity in the floor, in which some ancient relic was rested. The chapel is ten feet six inches long, nine feet wide, and seven and a half feet high. Near the entrance is the following inscription:—
"Beneath yon ivy's spreading shade,For lonely contemplation made,An ancient chapel stands complete,Once the hermit's calm retreatFrom worldly pomp and sordid care,To humble penitence and prayer;The sight is pleasing, all agree—Do, gentle stranger, turn and see."
The chapel is known as St. Robert's Chapel. St. Robert, the hermit whoused it for devotions, was born about 1160, and was the son of Sir Toke Flouris, who was mayor of the city of York. In his youth he was noted for his piety, and he entered the Cistercian Abbey of Newminster in Northumberland. He was only there eighteen weeks, however, removing to York, and then to Knaresborough, where he retired from the world to live a life of contemplation in this restful spot. He died in the September of 1218. On one side of the entrance to the chapel, under the ivy, is the figure of a Knight Templar, cut in the rock, in the act of drawing his sword to defend the place from the violence of intruders. This is a queer and remarkable building, and, though not now used as a place of worship, the reference here made to it may prove interesting.