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Our Parish Church (plate VII.), that is to say, the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Tidenham, Gloucestershire, in which parish my father’s Sedbury property was situated, was of considerable antiquarian interest, as, although the hamlet of Churchend in which it stands is not mentioned in the Saxon survey of 956, the original church was in existence in the year 1071. The fabric of the church when I knew it was of later date, and, as shown by the accompanying sketch, chiefly in the architecture of the fourteenth century, excepting the south doorways of the nave and chancel and the tall narrow trefoil-headed windows in the north aisle. The chief point of archæological interest, however, lies in its possession of a leaden font (plate VII.) in perfect repair, referable from its style to the transition period of Saxon and Anglo-Norman architecture, and considered not likely to be more recent in date than the eleventh century. The subject derives additional interest from the circumstance of the precise correspondence of this font in Tidenham Church with the leaden font in the church of the adjoining small parish of Llancaut, making it demonstrably certain that both the fonts were cast from the same mould.^[12] The decorations on the fonts are in mezzo relievo. These consist of figures and foliage ranged alternately, in twelve compartments, under ornamental, semi-circular arches resting on pillars; the design—two arches containing figures alternating with two arches containing foliage—being thrice repeated. The details will be better understood from the accompanying plate than from verbal description, but may be stated as representing respectively under each of the two thrice-repeated arches a venerable figure seated on a throne, the first of the two holding a sealed book, the second raising his hand as in the act of benediction, after removal of the seal from a similar book which is grasped in his hand. Each of these figures was considered to represent the Second Person of the Trinity.^[13] On this point I am not qualified to offer an opinion, but whatever may be the case as to ecclesiastical adaptation in the representation in the second of the two figures, the first of the throned figures appears to coincide with the description of the vision of the Deity, given in the “Revelation” of St. John, chap. V. verse 1,^[14] rather than with any representation of “The Lamb” that “stood,” as it had been slain, and “came and took the book out of the right hand of him that sat upon the throne” (verses 6 and 7 of the chapter quoted).

PLATE VII.

Leaden Font in Tidenham Church.

Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Tidenham, Gloucestershire.

The vault on S.E. side of the Church, about 15 ft. square,

is the grave of Miss Ormerod’s Father and Mother.

From a sketch by Miss Georgiana E. Ormerod.

The illustration is taken from very careful “rubbings” of the Tidenham Font. The Llancaut font has suffered considerable damage, and likewise the loss of two of the original twelve compartments. These had presumably been removed to make the font more suitable to the exceedingly small size of the little Norman chapel (plate VIII.). This church, which in my time was almost disused, measured only about 40 feet in length by 12 in breadth, and possessed nothing of an architectural character, excepting one small round-headed window at the east end, with plain cylindrical side shafts without capitals, and a small cinquefoil piscina. The situation, on one of the crooks of the Wye, and just above the river, is romantic in the extreme. The ground rapidly slopes down to it from above, clothed with woodland from the level of the top of the precipitous cliffs which rise almost immediately beside it to a great height above the river. Access on that side is thus only possible by boat, or by a rough way, known as the Fisherman’s Path, along the front of the cliffs. Nevertheless, because of the exceeding picturesqueness of the spot, it was a favourite resort on the twelve Sundays in the year on which (I believe under some legal necessity) service was there, in my time, performed. The scene, on the only occasion I was ever present (when our parish church was closed), might have furnished an excellent subject for a painting, as the congregation (far too many for the little church to hold), in their bright Sunday dress, emerged from the sloping glades or woodland, to the open space close by the church. Comfort was a matter of minor importance. Those who disposed themselves on the grass, where they had full enjoyment of the fresh summer air, and heard, through the open door, as much of the service as they chose to listen to, doubtless enjoyed themselves, but within it was not so agreeable. The squire’s family were of course installed in the pew, and there we were packed as tightly as could be managed, so that we all had to get up and sit down together. We had a “strange clergyman,” reported to be of vast learning; and my juvenile terror, along with my physical condition from squeezing, has imprinted the morning’s performance on my recollection as something truly wretched.

There being no resident population the chapel has since fallen into ruin, and the font and bell have been removed to the mother parish of Woolastone, the bell now doing duty at the day-school there. In 1890 Sir William H. Marling, Bart. (patron of the living) carefully restored the font and placed within it a brass plate bearing the following inscription:—

“Perantiquum hunc fontem baptismalem e ruinis sacelli scī Jacobi Lancaut in comū Gloucē servatum refecit Guls̄ Hes̄ Marling Bars̄ A.D, 1890.”

The venerable relic stands in the hall at Sedbury Park.

PLATE VIII.

Norman Chapel, Llancaut, Wye Cliffs.

The history of the “Church” in our parish of Tidenham, whether interpreted as the body of believers or the building in which they worshipped, might be well taken, during about the fifty middle years of the past century, as an illustration of “changing times.” In the year 1826—or thereabouts—when my father purchased the property, Tidenham Church was no exception to many other churches in rural districts. The interior comes back to my remembrance as dark, dingy, and very decidedly damp, as shown by the green mould on pillars and walls. One of the first improvements was the placing of two good stoves in the church,—one presented by my father, and the other (rather, I believe, against local wishes) by the Parish. I well remember the presence of the stoves, as it was considered by the churchwardens, or whoever arranged these matters, that the time which was most decorous for stirring the fires was during the singing as “it drowned the noise.” What our local choir consisted of I do not remember, but I rather think it was simply vocal, and started by a “pitchpipe.” But at least there was nothing ridiculous about it. We did not, as in a church at no great distance, have the violinist and his instrument carried in on a man’s shoulders because the unfortunate musician was without legs!

The sittings for the congregation were (I suppose as a matter of course in those days) all in closed pews with doors—the pews of a size, form, and respectability of appearance, likewise of comfort and fittings, according to the social position of their holders. It could not, however, be said that the chief parishioners had the best places, for our two large, roomy, square seats were mounted up, side by side, a few steps above the others at the end of the north aisle, with a good wall between us and the chancel, effectually preventing our seeing what was going on in that direction. Within our special pew, which had curtains more or less drawn, we sat round with our feet at proper times on good high hassocks. When we knelt we all turned round and faced the sides of the pew, and my juvenile sorrows were sometimes great towards the end of the Litany. The fatigue from kneeling on the top of my unsteady perch produced faintness, and I well remember my anxieties increasing with the “odd” feeling till I mustered courage to announce to my eldest sister, whom I held in considerable awe, that I did not feel very well; and measures were taken accordingly. The pew was said to be just over where the soldiers were buried who were killed during the Parliamentarian war at the Battle of Buttington, a locality in the same parish; but on an occasion of some repairs being made, the flooring was discovered to be laid on, or close above the live rock, which rendered this view inaccurate. The surface of the ground was immediately below the floor, and as the family pew had on its east side one of the great east windows of the church, and on the north side a smaller one, both with small panes ill-leaded, and one with a very insufficiently fastened small window, our Sunday devotions in winter were anything but comfortable.

I believe the rural congregation behaved with great propriety, though certainly on one occasion it struck me that a reverence during the creed at the name of Pontius Pilate on the part of the wife of my father’s farm-bailiff, was somewhat out of place. But we were free from such lapses in decency of arrangement as occurred elsewhere. The pigeons did not roost in the tower, neither did a turkey sit on her eggs in the pulpit, which, considering that the time of incubation for the turkey hen is four weeks, must have interfered considerably with the due performance of service. Neither were we, so far as I remember, scandalised by attendance of dogs in church, whether avowedly accompanying their masters or making a voyage of discovery as to where their clerical owner might have vanished. And certainly we did not have the disgraceful circumstance which occurred in another church with which I was acquainted, of two ladies of good social position in the parish walking up to the rails of the communion table to receive the sacrament, followed by their great Newfoundland dog!

One practice—certainly objectionable, but perhaps not unusual in country parishes where the church was also used as the week-day schoolroom—was putting the bags holding the provisions which the children brought with them for their dinners on the communion table. I do not think that this was so very shocking, for no irreverence was intended. A table was a table in those days, and not an “Altar,” and looking back on the matter it does not appear clear where else the food could have been safely placed. I fancy there was no regular vestry and, excepting the floor, or the seats of the pews, there does not seem to me to have been any other place of moderately safe deposit. However, by and by a room was hired as a schoolroom, and the church was freed from the presence of the children and their dinners. I well remember our going over in form to hold some sort of an examination, which was wound up by my father (who was certainly better fitted to examine witnesses from the magistrate’s bench than to probe for what information our little uncivilised urchins possessed) electrifying the audience by desiring to know whether his examinee knew the use of a pocket-handkerchief. My mother was a more efficient aid by paying the schooling of all our own cottagers’ children, and also in allaying strife. On one occasion, when a woman wished to remove her children from the parish school because they were better taught at a recently established Unitarian school, she dexterously overcame the difficulty by stating she meddled with nobody’s conscience, but if the children went to the parish school she paid, and if they did not go she didn’t. We heard no more on the subject.

Some of our customs were very pretty. On Palm Sunday, that is the Sunday before Easter Sunday, sometimes known in our part and the district as “Flowering Sunday,” it was the custom to dress the graves with flowers. Friends of the family came from a long distance. A son of our head-gardener would come down from Scotland for the occasion, and the wealth of yellow daffodils and white narcissus, which grew by the Wye, close to the little church of Llancaut, helped greatly towards the decoration. Two Crown Imperials were a greatly admired addition which, season permitting, appeared to ornament one special grave. The “flowering” was a touching and pleasing remembrance of the friends whose bodies rested below, until in after years the custom gradually arose of placing artificial flowers along with the fresh blossoms, and then followed the much to be deprecated practice of putting little cases of flowers of tinsel, or anything that was approved of, which might remain on the grave. At Christmas time we had the real old-fashioned church decorations of good large boughs of holly, with plenty of red berries, mistletoe, laurel, and anything evergreen of a solid sort. The squire (i.e., my father) contributed a cartload of evergreen branches, and as a matter of course, they were applied largely to ornamenting our corner pew with more regard to appearance than comfort.

The service was performed simply, as was customary in those days, without any music excepting the singing of the hymns, but as nothing was omitted, and there was, I believe, no curate, it must have been rather fatiguing to the vicar, and it certainly was a terribly long business especially for those not always in good health, if they stayed for the Communion Service on the rare occasions on which it was administered. The drive from the Park to the bottom of the hill on which the Church stood, was upwards of two miles. Then came a wearying walk up the hill until this became so steep that in the Churchyard there were successive little arrangements of steps to help us up the ascent. Within, it seems to me, that the clergyman neither excused himself, nor us, anything that might have lightened the strain, bodily and mental, to the younger attendants. The creed of St. Athanasius was duly gone through as well as the Litany, and addresses, which nowadays are cut very short, came at full length. When, after the return drive, we got safely home, I will not say but that our spiritual state might have been better had our bodily condition been less open to the unsettling influence of a desire for a much-needed meal.

One pleasure of the high days was having the fine old hymns for Easter or Christmas, which no bad singing can spoil, as a variety on Sternhold and Hopkins, but I still bear in mind the absolute depression caused by that doleful production, the hymn called “The Lamentation of a Sinner.” To this day it seems to me that it would be better for such a composition to be omitted from our service.

Although it appears to be the correct thing for those who have been before the public in later life to have reminiscences (or for their biographer to invent them), of their precocious piety, I cannot remember that I was ever much given that way. I think that I was as a child kept in steady paths of proper behaviour, and amongst the items taught was certainly scrupulous observance of the fifth commandment in all its branches. Any deviation from truth was another point, the wickedness of which was most sedulously inculcated; and I should say that from my earliest days I was thoroughly well grounded in as much simple and necessary religious information as my small head could carry.

But I did not indulge in fine sentiments, felt or expressed, and I think that my first absolute feeling on religious matters was roused when in one of our spring visits to London, I went regularly on Sunday morning with the family to attend the service at the Vere Street Chapel, where Mr. Scobell was then vicar, and some clergyman of high standing occasionally preached. One thing that was very charming to a girl who had not heard anything of the kind before, was the hymn singing. The splendid hymn “Thou art the way,” imprinted itself on my mind, as likewise a part of a sermon by Mr. Scobell, on the basis of our trust in God. He enumerated various of the high characteristics of the Deity; His boundless power, His holiness and other characteristics of His majesty. With the mention of each characteristic he put the question, “Does this give you a claim for acceptance?” until he came to the climax, “His love,” with the words “but His love, that you may trust.” Perhaps if the good man had known how these words would abide to old age as a comfort to one who was then amongst the youngest of his congregation, it would have given him pleasure.

The Archbishop of Dublin, the celebrated Dr. Whately, also preached at this Chapel, and I heard him deliver his grand sermon on “the doubts leading to the assured belief of St. Thomas.” I suppose this time was what in some circles would have been called my “awakening,” but we in our family neither thought nor spoke of these things; and any allusion to such matters would have brought on me (possibly very rightly) an awakening of another kind, which would have entirely disinclined me to favour the family with any religious views, beyond what might be shown in behaving with propriety and above all doing as I was bid to the best of my ability.

Reverting to early recollections of ecclesiastical matters, or things in which the clergy might have been expected, ex-officio, to interfere, there certainly was room for improvement, but this was not peculiar to the olden time. Some of the curious circumstances of which accounts reached my young ears are better forgotten. One thing that I remember was the very different position relating to sporting, and also to the divergence in dress from the great precision now in vogue. A clergyman of somewhat high position, being, I suppose, pressed for time on one occasion, performed the funeral service in his “pink” visible beneath his surplice. Another, subsequently a favourite with all his poorer parishioners for his kindness, when a candidate for orders, was encouraged by his father to the necessary mental labour by the promise that if he passed his examination he should have a double-barrelled gun! In a locality not far from the edge of Monmouthshire, I myself saw the incumbent of one of the small livings with his coat off loading a manure cart! He comes back to my memory as doing the work quietly and gravely, and with no more appearance of derogation than if he had been budding the roses in his garden; still the work must have taken a considerable amount of time from the purposes of his ordination.

The “Oxford” or “Tractarian Movement” of 1833-45^[15] made an enormous commotion, and perhaps for a retired locality nowhere more than in our own parish.

After the death of the old vicar, amongst a succession of clergy the most noted was Dr. Armstrong (presented 1846).^[16] With him came the full tide of the Oxford Movement, and as he was a highly accomplished man, eloquent in the pulpit, of charming society manner in the drawing-room, and with his heart fixed on driving his own views of reform and restoration forward, the holders of differing ecclesiastical views in the parish were soon very thoroughly by the ears. My father as “squire” and chief resident landowner had always tried (much to his own discomfort at times) to uphold the cause of decency and order. But with the new arrangements came all sorts of trouble from an excess of ceremonial, and peace seemed to have vanished. The attempted setting up of confession caused much trouble, and difference of lay and clerical opinion in the restoration of the Church was a fertile cause of ill-feeling. One special point was the right claimed by the vicar to prevent any of the general congregation entering the church by the chancel door. We had always gone in that way, and it was not convenient to reach the family pew by going round two sides of the church, so my father stuck to his legal rights, and the door was not visibly fastened. But one unlucky day when we, the ladies of the family, arrived as usual and tried to go in, to our consternation it appeared impossible to turn the latch. It was a remarkably pretty handle—I suppose an imitation of mediæval ironwork—but it required more than common woman’s strength to make this unlucky invention act in admitting us to the church. However, we were not to be kept out by this ingenious device. Muscularly I was remarkably strong from working in wood and stone, and I was perfectly happy to forward my father’s wishes, so thenceforward for many a week I went to church with a round ruler in my pocket, and slipping this into the hanging bit of ironwork, I easily raised the latch and gave my mother and sisters entrance to church. I did not object to my part of the ceremony in the least—rather liked it, in fact—but looking back from graver age it seems to me that it would have been better if the vicar had not driven the squire to defend the rights of the congregation by such forcible measures. After a while the latch (or the vicar’s view on the subject) was loosened, and we obtained entrance without, like the violent, being obliged to take it by force.

The real troubles of the times were endless. It was even possible for a sincerely religious man to absent himself from the reception of communion on the ground that he was not able to participate with Christian comfort and in a charitable frame of mind. Within the church building itself the condition of things was not satisfactory. The openings beneath the very “open” seats, whereby was secured free circulation for dogs and draughts, were unpleasant in various ways.

The appointment of our skilled and accomplished vicar, Dr. Armstrong, to the Bishopric of Grahamstown in South Africa, for which he was eminently fitted, was hailed by many of us with heartfelt gratitude. In later years, under the kindly care of the Rev. Percy Burd (successor in 1862 of the Rev. Alan Cowburn) who, without thinking it necessary to push everything to extremities, attended with the utmost care to proprieties of detail of worship in church, to social friendliness, and to care of the poor, we passed along in paths of comfort and peace, for which some of us were deeply grateful.

Amongst various parish or local matters, of which the bodily presence has, to a great degree, passed away, and the remembrance that at one time such things were has probably faded from most of the minds in which they ever held a place, are turnpike gates, with their adjoining toll-houses; also the parish stocks and the parish pound.

In parochial arrangements in my day two great improvements arose, one of which has now long been a regular part of parish work, but was new at least to us. This was a women’s clothing club. The other was the commencement of the plan of lending books to those who otherwise would rarely have seen them. It was introduced by my sister, Georgiana E. Ormerod, when little more than a girl, quite at her own expense. It was continued by her without any pecuniary assistance (unless may be sometimes some small co-operation from myself) to the end of her long life.

The clothing club was set on foot under some difficulties by the wife of one of the clergy resident in our parish, for the goods procurable at Chepstow, the nearest town, were by no means remarkable for their quality, and Mrs. Morgan thought herself bound to do the best in her power for her poor subscribers. So the matter was accommodated (not without a good deal of grumbling from Chepstow shopkeepers about money being taken out of their pockets) by part of the goods brought from Bristol (where excellent material was to be had) for the women to choose from, being sent previous to “club day” to Mr. Morgan’s large and commodious house. In those days, so far as I know, the plan of sending the women with tickets to the shops had not been adopted, and our method, though exceedingly laborious to the lady manager of the club, was good for the women, for it ensured that their choice was confined to the very best materials, all of a useful kind, and at the lowest possible prices.

When a growing up girl, perhaps about sixteen, my sister Georgiana thought it would be a pleasure to the children of our own cottagers to have some entertaining books, and she began by lending them from the small store which had gradually come down from the elders of our generation. She chose carefully what she thought would be of interest, and very soon the elder children took to reading, or sometimes the fathers would read aloud to their families. My sister always either read the books herself or knew the nature of the contents before lending them, and when done with they were brought back and exchanged. The borrowing rapidly spread beyond our own cottagers till it included our farmers and their friends at Gloucester and Bristol. The books were almost invariably treated with all reasonable care, and scarcely ever was one a-missing. Besides the entertainment, they acted as an antidote to the attractions of the public-house. It was a great delight to my sister when she had a request for a book, because Jack or Dick was home from his ship or on a holiday, and they wanted a book that would keep him from the “public.” I attribute much of my sister’s success to the care with which, even after her book-lending had extended to far-distant localities, she chose the books. On one occasion when she had made a donation of books of her own choosing to the Lending Library, Bethnal Green, London, she was greatly pleased to hear that the boys and girls had passed the word round amongst the factories of the entertaining books that had arrived. Those we found suited best (for I was in some degree her assistant) were accounts of real incidents made into narratives. Ballantyne’s earlier books with accounts of the fire brigade, post office, lighthouse and the like were great favourites, perhaps none the less for the conversations being at times a trifle vulgar; but when a writer took up some special view, as of teetotalism, high-churchism, or any other specialism, we dropped him. Stories of olden times, such as the Plague in London, or the Great Fire; risings in Henry the Eighth’s time; wars of the time of Charles the First and Cromwell; forest troubles of the time of William Rufus, and the like—told as stories, with the facts correct although the thread on which they were strung was imaginary—were always favourites. We seldom lent absolutely religious books unless they were asked for, and then we took care that they should be of a solid and interesting sort; but whether sacred or secular the number of books lent or given for lending in the course of the year was very great.

My sister was a highly accomplished woman, a good linguist and historian, and a careful scriptural student. As a scientific entomologist and a Fellow of the Entomological Society of London, she was a co-operator with me in my work. She devoted her artistic talent for many years to the execution of excellent diagrams, serviceable for agricultural purposes, of insects injurious to farm and orchard produce, some of which she made over to the Royal Agricultural Society, but the greater number she presented to friends interested in lessening the amount of loss through insect injury, and to Agricultural Colleges. From girlhood to old age she unceasingly carried on her chosen work of distribution of useful healthy literature. She asked no aid, nor made the considerable sums she expended, and the careful cordial thought she gave to this work, matter of public notoriety, but in her last moments it brought a smile to her face when I told her that I purposed to continue her work.

My father when living near Chester had the first news on a Sunday morning before church time, of the Duke of Wellington’s success, and that the battle of Waterloo had been fought and won. After service he mounted on a tombstone and announced the glorious news to the assembled congregation. In my early days in Gloucestershire, a neighbour, Captain Fenton, was at times thought to be tedious in his recurrence to the charge of the Scots Greys in which he had served, but it was a grand memory all the same.

In a much humbler sphere and at a different stage of the same great struggle an interesting part was played by a very decent woman—afterwards a servant in our family—at the burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna. She was proud to remember that she was one of those who held a lanthorn at the ceremony alluded to in Wolfe’s poem:—

“We buried him darkly at dead of night

*** ***

By the struggling moonbeams’ misty light

And the lanthorn dimly burning.”

PLATE IX.

Map of the Banks of the Wye.

Sedbury Park Property, the darkly shaded area between

Severn and Wye.

(pp. 33 and 38.)