Perhaps I may be singular in my opinion, and not so happy as to convey to you the same idea; but I never contemplate these mountains without thinking I perceive somewhat analogous to growth in their gentle swellings and smooth fungus-like protuberances, their fluted sides, and regular hollows and slopes, that carry at once the air of vegetative dilatation and expansion. Or, was there ever a time when these immense masses of calcareous matter were thrown into fermentation by some adventitious moisture; were raised and leavened into such shapes by some plastic power; and so made to swell and heave their broad backs into the sky so much above the less animated clay of the wild below?"

With all our admiration of the amiable author of the "Natural History of Selborne," we are not disposed to regard our South Downs in the light of vegetable productions or chemical fermentations; but we leave the solution of the question to the geologist.

And now let us descend to Ovingdean, which lies at our feet.

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Clavering Setting Out to Join the King

II

OVINGDEAN GRANGE IN THE YEAR SIXTEEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY-ONE

SINCE the year 1651 but slight change has taken place in the general aspect of the sequestered little village of Ovingdean (Offingas den, in Saxon), situated in a charming dene, or woody valley, amidst the South Downs, and within a mile of the coast.

During the two centuries that have elapsed since the date assigned to our story, the habitations of this secluded little village, which, notwithstanding its contiguity to the queen of watering-places, Brighton, seems still quite out of the world, have scarcely—with one important exception, namely, the modern mansion known as Ovingdean House—increased in number, or consequence. Indeed, the Grange, which, in the middle of the seventeenth century, was the principal residence of the place, is not only greatly reduced in size, but has entirely lost its original and distinctive character. Still, regarded without reference to the past, Ovingdean Grange, as it now appears, is a fair-proportioned, cheerful-looking domicile, and with its white walls and pleasant garden, full of arbutuses, laurestines, holms, and roses, offers a very favourable specimen of a Sussex farm-house. In one respect, and that by no means an immaterial one, the existing Grange far surpasses its predecessor; namely, in the magnitude and convenient arrangements of its farmyard, as well as in the number of its barns, cow-houses, and other outbuildings, all of which are upon a scale never dreamed of in the olden time.

But as it is with the ancient house that we have now to do, we must endeavour to give some notion of it. Even in 1651, Ovingdean Grange was old, having been built in the reign of Henry VIII. Constructed of red brick, chequered with diamonds, formed of other bricks, glazed, and of darker hue, mingled with flints, it seemed destined to endure for ages, and presented a very striking frontage, owing to the bold projections of its bay-windows with their stone posts and lintels, its deep arched portal with a stone escutcheon above it, emblazoned with the arms of the Maunsels, at that time its possessors, its stone quoins and cornices, its carved gables, its high roof, covered with tiles entrusted with orange-tawny mosses and lichens, and its triple clusters of tall and ornamented chimney-shafts.

Old Ovingdean Grange did not want a rookery. In a fine grove of elms, occupying part of the valley towards the south, a large colony of these aristocratic birds had taken up their quarters. Nor must we omit to mention that many of the trees, in the upper branches of which the rooks' nests might be seen, had attained a girth and altitude not a little remarkable, considering their proximity to the sea. It has been already intimated that the ancient farm-yard was neither so extensive nor so well arranged as its successor, but it possessed one of those famous old circular dovecots, which used to be the pride of a Sussex country-house, and which, before pigeon-matches were introduced, never failed to supply the family table with a savoury pie or a roast. At the rear of the house was a garden, walled round, and laid out in the old-fashioned style, with parterres and terraces; and beyond it was an orchard full of fruit-trees. Higher up on the down was a straggling little holt, or thicket, the trees of which, by their stunted growth and distorted shapes, manifested the influence of the sea-breezes. When we have mentioned a large close, encompassed by a shaw, or fence of low trees, and displaying within its area a few venerable hawthorns, ancient denizens of the downs, we shall have particularized all the domains of old Ovingdean Grange.

The little village of Ovingdean, consisted then, as now, of a few neatly-kept cottages, clustered like beehives near the mansion, some three or four in the valley, but the most part amongst the trees on the side of the eastern down. These cottages were tenanted by the bailiff, the husbandmen, shepherds, and other hinds employed at the Grange.

But the most pleasing feature of the place, and one by which it is happily yet distinguished, was the church. Scarce a stone's throw from the Grange, at the foot of a wooded escarpment, on the western side of the dene, and on a green and gentle declivity, stood, and still stands, the reverend little pile. Grey and old was Ovingdean church at the time of our story, for its architecture is Norman and Early English, but it is upwards of two centuries older now, and somewhat greyer in consequence, though Time has dealt kindly with it, and has touched it with a hand so loving and tender, that if he has robbed it of aught, he has only added to its beauty. Peace rests upon the antique little fane, and breathes from out its hoary walls. Peace rests upon the grassy mounds and carefully-tended tombs lying within its quiet precincts. Nothing more hushed, more sequestered, more winningly and unobtrusively beautiful, can be conceived than this simple village churchyard. The grey old walls that surround it, and shut it in like a garden, the trees that shade it, and completely shelter the holy edifice on the north, give it a peculiar air of privacy and tranquillity. Subdued by the calming influences of the spot, the heart becomes melted, the thoughts soar heavenward. Truly, a quiet resting-place after the turmoil of life.

Nor will the devotional feelings inspired by a pause within these hallowed precincts be lessened by an entrance into the sacred edifice itself; for there, if you love simplicity, you shall find it; there you shall behold a primitive little village church, without ornament, yet possessing the richest ornament in the absence of all decorative artifice; lacking not the graces of ecclesiastical architecture as displayed in the rounded arches dividing its nave from the chancel, and elsewhere in the structure; there, nothing shall disturb your religious train of thought; there, you shall find a rustic congregation, and shall listen to rustic voices chanting the holy hymn; and above all, you shall hear our Church's noble service well and worthily performed, and shall have good ghostly council from a good man's lips.

Though sufficing for the thinly-peopled parish in which it stands, the dimensions of Ovingdean church are modest enough, the nave and chancel, taken together, being little larger than those of many a private chapel. Aisles it has none, though it may once have possessed a south wing, marks of an arch being still discernible on the external wall on this side of the edifice; the roof is open, and crossed and supported by stout beams of oak; and the low square western tower, entered from within, serves the joint purposes of vestiary and belfry. We should prefer the true colour of the stone and timber to whitewash, but the latter, at all events, is clean and cheerful to look upon, and serves to display the many hatchments and marble tablets reared against the walls. Over the screen separating the nave from the chancel may be read these comforting words: "Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Together with this verse from the Psalms, well suited to the place: "This shall be my rest forever: here will I dwell, for I have a delight therein."

But though we love the old pile, we must not linger within it too long, but go forth into its quiet churchyard, now basking in sunshine, and visited by the sweet and delicate air of the downs. If there be a gleam of sunshine in the skies, it seems to seek out this favoured spot; while, when the rain descends here, it falls gently as the tears of a mourner. Would you see, ere we pass out by the arched gateway leading to the rectory, two relics of two centuries ago? you may perceive them in yon pair of decayed elder-trees, whose hoar, gnarled, corrugated trunks, and fantastically twisted branches, flung out like huge antlers, have but little vitality about them, and yet are deservedly spared for their age and picturesque appearance.

Where the present cheerful and commodious parsonage-house now stands, stood, in earlier days, a small monastic-looking structure, of higher antiquity even than the Grange; and this time-honoured edifice, all traces of which, except some portions of its garden walls, have disappeared, had served as an abiding-place for many successive pastors of the neighbouring church.

But alas! in the unhappy and distracted times of which we propose to treat, this little manse sheltered no minister of our Church. A woful change had come over it. The good pastor, who for years had dwelt there, honoured and beloved by all who profited by his teaching; who was pious, charitable, tolerant, and irreproachable in conduct; this excellent man, with whom no fault could be found, save that he was a firm and consistent supporter of the established Church of England, and a resolute maintainer of its tenets and of episcopal jurisdiction, was deprived of his benefice, driven from his dwelling, and no longer permitted to exercise his sacred functions within those walls where his voice had so often been heard. The Reverend Ardingly Beard, for so was named this sufferer in a good cause, bore his own crosses without a murmur, but he ceased not to deplore the fallen state of the Church, now become a prey to ravening wolves.