Ovingdean Grange. A tale of the South Downs. Illustrated by Hablot K. Browne

Book I. John Habergeon

I. PAGE A View eeom an old Baeeow on the South Downs . . . . 3 II. Ovingdean Geange in the Yeae Sixteen Hundbed and Fifty-one . 7 III. Showing what befel Claveeing Maunsel aftee the Battle of Wobcestee . . . ■ 18

Book II. Increase Micklegift

I. Showing that a Chimney may. seeve foe otheb Pueposes than as a Passage fob Smoiœ 37 II. What passed between the Independent Minister and Dulcia in the Chuechyabd VI CONTENTS. III. PAGE Some of the Vexations experienced by a Royalist Gentleman at the Time of the Commonwealth 50 BOOK IH. HAWKING ON THE DOWNS. I. The Osteegee and his Son 61 II. The Peoclamation 69 III. The Taetaeet and the Heeon 7S IV. Captain Stelfax 85

Book IV. The Search By The Ironsides

I. Tile Peioey Ruins 93 II. Mock-Beggae Hall and its Inmate 96 III. How Ninian delivered his Message 105 IV. In what Manner the Captain of the Ibonsides employed his Time at the geange , . 108 V. Showing how Increase Micklegift did a good Turn to Clavering US CONTENTS. VII

Book V. Fox And Wolf

I. PAGE How Clavering came down the Chimney ; and how Micklegift lent him Aid for the second Time 127 II. How Micklegift was ignominiously expelled from the Grange . 136 III. How the Captain of the Ironsides took Possession of the Colonel's Chamber 140 IV. Of the Message sent by Micklegift to Stelfax ; and of the Plan foe ensnaeing the Fugitives devised by the latter . . . 145 V. How the Captain of the Ironsides inspected the Village Church, AND MADE ANOTHER CAPTURE 155

Book VI. The Devil's Dyke

1. Showing how Ninian escaped ; and how the other Prisoners were taken to the Church Towee . . . . ■ . . . . 165 IL The Chase of the Cavalier 173 III. Of the Guests at the Poynings' Aems . . . . . . . 181 IV. W^t lEegnrtr of t\)e Utbil's Ugfee, As RELATED BY MASTER ClSBUEY OLDFIRLE, SCHOOLMASTER, OF POYNINGS CONTENTS. VIII V. FACE How Stelfax took the Cavalier to the Grange ; and what happened by the Way 199 VI. By what Means the Pbisonees escaped from the Church . . 202 BOOK vn. CAPTAIN TATTERSALL OF THE SWIFTSURE. I. How Sergeant Delves was eepeimanded by his Leadee . . . 211 IT. In what Manner Colonel Guntee was liberated .... 216 III. The Night Ride to Newhaven— The Brig and the Frigate . . 228 IV. The Star at Alfriston 233 V. How Mr. Beard and Dulcia were taken as Hostages for Colonel Maunsel 238 VI. The Shepherds on Mount Caburn 247 VII. What happened at the Dolphin at Shoreham 252

Book VIII. Charles

TnE SECOND AT OVINGDEAN GRANGE. I. The Paper Bullet , 263 II A Royal Wanderer ggg CONTENTS. IX III. paoh An Encounter with the Governor of Arundel Castle . . .279 IV. The Blacksmith of Angmering 283 V. The Patriarch of the Downs 286 VI. What happened at the White Horse at Steyning . . . . 290 VII. Ditchling Beacon 297 VIII. Of the King's Reception at the Geange 303 IX. How the King was shut up in the Hiding-place .... 311 X. The Pueitan's Daughtee 314 XI. In which the Tables abe tuened upon Stelfax . . . .318

Book IX. Brightelmstone In

1651. 1. A Glance at Brightelmstone in the Nineteenth Centuet . . 331 II. The George at Beightelmstone 335 III. Introducing two of Captain Tattersall's Crew . . • . 343 IV. Containing Particulars of the Conflict on Kingston Hill, and of the Embarkation at Shoreham 349 b ILLUSTRATIONS. Chase of the Cavaliee — Frontispiece. page Clavering setting out to join the King 16 Micklegift and Dulcia 48 Hawking on the Downs 83 Mock-Beggae Hall 101 Micklegift has his Mouth stopped 139 Sergeant Delves eepeimanded 213 Chaeles II. at Ovingdean Grange OVINGDEAN GRANGE.

Book I. John Habergeon

I A VIEW FE0M AN OLD BAEEOW ON THE SOUTH DOWNS. Fairer spot than this cannot be found amidst the whole range of the South Downs — nor one commanding more delightful views. Look at it and judge. It is the rounded summit of a hill; or, to speak with greater precision, the mid-summit of a series of soft bosomy eminences, springing from a hilly ridge, that trends towards the coast, and rises and falls smoothly and gently in its course, like the waves of a slightly agitated sea. The lovely mount is covered with short elastic sward, redolent of thyme and other sweet-smelling herbs, and is crowned by an ancient bowl-shaped British barrow, on the bank of which we will seat ourselves, and look around. How pleasing is the prospect ! how fresh the air that visits us ! No breeze so fine and invigorating as that of these Sussex downs; no turf so springy to the foot as their smooth greensward.

A flock of larks flies past us, and a cloud of mingled rooks and starlings wheels overhead. Mark yon little T-shaped cuttings on tne slope below us — those are the snares set by the shepherds for the delib cious wheatear — our English ortolan. The fairies still haunt this spot, and hold their midnight revels upon it, as yon dark-green rings testify. The common folk hereabouts term the good people " Pharisees," and style those emerald circles " hag-tracks :" why, we care not to inquire. Enough for us, the fairies are not altogether gone. A smooth, soft carpet is here spread out for Oberon and Titania and their attendant elves to dance upon by moonlight; and there is no lack of mushrooms to form tables for Puck's banquets. Own that no hills can be more beautiful than these South Downs. They may want height, boldness, grandeur, sublimity; they possess not forest, rock, torrent, or ravine ; but they have gentleness, softness, and other endearing attributes.

We will not attempt to delineate the slight but infinite varieties of form and aspect that distinguish one hill from its neighbour; for though a strong family likeness marks them all, each down has an individual character. Regarded in combination with each other, the high ranges form an exquisite picture. Contemplation of such a scene soothes rather than excites, and inspires only feelings of placid enjoyment. We are called upon for no violent emotion. We are not required to admire Nature in her wildest and most savage aspect. We have a peaceful land scape before us, of a primitive character, and possessing accompani ments of pastoral life. Yonder is the shepherd, with crook and dog, watching his flock browse on the thymy slopes — the unequalled sheep of the South Downs, remember. At our feet lies a well-cultivated valley, with broad patches of turnip and mangel-wurzel on one side, and a large stubble-field on the other, where the plough man with his yoke of patient oxen is at work.

In this valley you may note a farm-shed and a sheepfold, with rows of haystacks and cornstacks at various points, evidencing the fertility of the soil. In front of us is the British Channel. A burst of sunshine illu mines the tall white cliffs on the east, and gleams upon the far-off lighthouse. That pharos is on Beachy Head. On the near height overlooking the sea stands a windmill, while a solitary barn forms a landmark on that distant hill. Altogether, a charming picture. But we have not yet fully examined it. The beauteous hill, on the brow of which we are seated, has necessarily a valley on either side. On the right, and immediately beneath us, is a pretty little village, nestling amid a grove of trees, above whose tops you may discern the tower of a small, grey old church. With this village we trust to make you more intimately acquainted by-and-by.

It is Ovingdean. On the left, and nearer the sea, you may discern another, and considerably larger village than Ovingdean, almost as picturesque as the latter, and possessing a grey, antique church at its northern extremity. This second village is Rottingdean. Behind and around on every side, save towards the sea, are downs — downs with patches of purple heather or grey gorse clothing their sides — downs with small holts within their coombs, partially cultivated, or perfectly bare — everywhere downs. Pleasant it is where we sit to watch the clouds chase each other across the valleys, up the hill-side, over the hill-top, then losing them for a while, behold them again on a more distant eminence, producing in their passage exquisite effects of light and shade. Meet emblem those fleeting clouds of our own quick passage to eternity.

Smiling, and sunny, and joy-inspiring are the downs now; but at times they have a graver aspect. At shuddering dawn, or at the midnight hour, they have a solemn and mysterious look, and seem, like the Sphynx, to mutter secrets of the Past. Of most other places in the land the ancient features are changed, disfigured, or wholly obliterated; but the old visage of the Sussex Downs is unaltered. It is the same as when the Celtic Britons held their funeral ceremonies on this green mount; as when the warlike Romans made their camps upon yonder neighbouring hill; as when our Saxon ancestors dwelt in those secluded valleys, and gave names to them which we still retain. What wonder that such ancient hills — ancient, but endowed with perpetual youth — should sometimes discourse of the great people they have known !

What wonder when the scene is the same that the shades of the mighty departed should sometimes revisit the theatre of their earthly actions ! Before quitting our seat on this old tumulus, let us hear what delightful Gilbert White has to say about the district: "Though I have now travelled the Sussex Downs upwards of thirty years,'" writes this charming natural historian, " yet I still investigate that chain of majestic mountains with fresh admiration year by year, and think I see new beauties every time I traverse it. Mr. Ray was so ravished with the prospect from Plumpton Plain near Lewes, that he mentions those scenes in his ' Wisdom of God in the works of Creation' with the utmost satisfaction, and thinks them equal to anything he had seen in the finest parts of Europe. For my own part, I think there is something peculiarly sweet and amusing in the shapely figured aspect of chalk hills in preference to those of stone, which are rugged, broken, abrupt, and shapeless.

Per haps I may be singular in my opinion, and not so happy as to convey to you the same idea; but I never contemplate these moun tains 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 ofthe 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 fermenta tions ; but we leave the solution of the question to the geologist.

And now let us descend to Ovingdean, whicii lies at our feet. OVINGDEAN GRANGE IN THE YEAR SIXTEEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY-ONE. Since the year 1651 but slight change has taken place in the general aspect ofthe sequestered little^illage 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 as signed 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. In deed, 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 farm yard, 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 1G51, Oving dean Grange was old, having been built in the reign of Henry VIII. Constructed of red brick, chequered with diamonds, formed ot 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 encrusted with orange tawny mosses and lichens, and its triple clusters of tall and orna mented 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 proxi mity to the sea. It has been already intimated that the ancient farm-yard was neither so extensive nor so well arranged as its suc cessor, but it possessed one of those famous old circular dovecots, whicii 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 particularised 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 edi fice itself; for there, if you love simplicity, you shall find it ; there you shall behold a primitive little village church, without orna ment, 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 ofthe 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 rests Together with this verse from the Psalms, well suited to the place: " This shall be my rest for ever: 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 fantas tically 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 struc ture, 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 sup porter of the established Church of England, and a resolute main tainer 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 with out a murmur, but he ceased not to deplore the fallen state of the Church, now become a prey to ravening wolves.

When con demned as an obstinate and incurable prelatist and malignant, and dispossessed of his church and living, he had the additional grief and mortification of finding his place occupied by the Reverend Master Increase Micklegift (as the latter chose to style himself, though his real name was Zaccheus Stonegall), an Independent minister, and a zealous expounder of his own doctrines, but whom Mr. Beard regarded as a hypocrite, and highly dangerous to the spiritual welfare of his somewhile flock. But the deprived clergyman did not retire altogether from the scene of his labours, though prevented from continuing them as heretofore. He obtained an asylum at the Grange, with its owner and his assured and sympathising friend, the Royalist Colonel Wolston Maunsel. For many years a widower, the good pastor had found solace in the companionship and affectionate attentions of the only child left him, his daughter Dulcia.

At the time of his suspension from his religious functions, which unhappy event occurred about four years before the date of our story, Dulcia Beard had just reached her fifteenth spring, and though she felt the blow at the moment with as much acuteness as her father, yet with the happy elasticity of youth she speedily shook off its effects, and regained her wonted buoyancy of spirit. In sooth, there was not much to make her regret the change of abode. Apartments were assigned to her father and herself at the Grange, where they might dwell as retired as they pleased, and in order to remove any sense of dependence on the part of his reverend guest, Colonel Maunsel appointed him to the office of his domestic chaplain. Thus, though forbidden, under the penalty of fine and im prisonment, to preach to his somewhile flock in public, or even to perform the church-service covertly, our good clergyman was enabled to address in private such as were not backsliders or apostates, and prevent them from wavering in the true faith.

Greatly beholden, therefore, did the worthy man feel to him who, under Providence, afforded an asylum fraught with so many ad vantages to himself and his dearly beloved child. In all respects Dulcia Beard merited her father's love. A gentler, sweeter disposition than hers could not be found; purer and higher principles than she possessed never existed in female bosom. As she grew towards womanhood her personal charms became more fully developed. Soft and delicate in mould, her features expressed in every line the amiability and goodness of her nature. Impossible to doubt the candour of her clear, blue, earnest eyes. Equally impossible to misunderstand the serenity of her marble brow, or the composure of her classic countenance. Calm was her countenance, but not cold; classic were her features in form, but with nothing rigorous in their outline.

If her features corresponded with her nature, so did her person correspond with her features. Graceful in the highest degree, her figure was tall, and of exquisite symmetry. Her manner was entirely unsophisti cated, and captivating from its very simplicity. The very reverse of a modish gentlewoman w-as Dulcia Beard, and owed none of her attractions to art. Whether any other image beside that of her father had found a place within that gentle bosom, will be seen as we proceed. Colonel Wolston Maunsel of Ovingdean Grange has been de scribed as a Royalist, but his description of himself, " that he was a Cavalier to the backbone," would be more correct. Colonel Maunsel hated the rebels and Roundheads and the whole Repub lican party, civil, military, and religious, as he hated poison; but if he had a special object of aversion it was Noll Cromwell.

The execution of Charles deepened the colonel's animosity towards the regicides, and after the direful tragedy of Whitehall, he assumed a mourning habit, vowing never to put it off till the death of the martyred monarch should be fully avenged upon his murderers. Colonel Maunsel was descended from a good old Sussex family; the branch he belonged to having settled at Ovingdean. Though not brought up to the profession of arms, but rather from habit and position disposed to lead the life of a country squire, our loyal gentleman, on the outbreak of the Civil War, alarmed by the imminence of the crisis, and instigated by his own strong Cavalier feelings, had deemed it incumbent upon him to abandon a home he delighted in, together with a wife whom he passionately loved, and joined the standard of the king.

For several years Wolston Maunsel served under Prince Rupert, and shared in the victories as well as in the defeats of that great, though somewhat rash, com mander. He fought at the famous battle of Edgehill, where Rupert's matchless cavalry did such signal execution upon the Parliamentarians, at Lansdown Hill, and at Chalgrave Field; was present at the sieges of Bristol and Bolton, at the important but ill-starred battle of Marston Moor, and at Ledbury, after which engagement he obtained from the Prince the command of a regiment of dragoons. Colonel Maunsel's last appearance on the battle-field was at Naseby, where his regiment was completely cut to pieces by Fairfax, and he himself severely wounded and made prisoner. With other captives he was sent by the victorious Par liamentary leaders to the castle of Chester, and detained long enough there to shatter his health.

Heavy fines were inflicted upon him, which greatly impoverished his estates, but after nearly a year's confinement he was released, and retired to his residence at Ovingdean, where we have found him. But other calamities, besides defeat and loss of property, had befallen the unfortunate Cavalier. During the time of his im murement within Chester Castle, his beloved wife, who was not permitted to share her husband's captivity, had died from grief and anxiety. An only son, then just sixteen, was, however, left him. Had the Civil War continued, this high-spirited youth, who inherited all his father's principles of loyalty, and hated the Re publicans as heartily as his father, would have followed in the old Cavalier's footsteps ; but when Colonel Maunsel was set free, the struggle was well-nigh over, the Royalist party was crushed for the time, and did not rally again for nearly five years, when Charles the Second was crowned at Scone, and entered England at the head of a small army, with the futile hope, as it proved, of conquering his rebellious kingdom.

Then it was that Clavering Maunsel, who by this time had become a remarkably handsome young man of one-and-twenty, and was as eager for the fray as a war-horse stirred by the trumpet, was despatched by the colonel to aid the youthful monarch. If his father had tried to restrain the young Cavalier, the attempt would have been ineffectual ; but the loyal old colonel did no such thing. On the contrary, he commanded him to go ; gave him his own sword, and bade him use it against the enemies of the king, and the slayers of the king's father. While straining his son to his breast at parting, the gallant old Cavalier declared that he envied him, his sole grief being that he could not accompany him. "But of what use to his Majesty would be a battered old soldier like myself, who can scarce move limb without help ?

" he cried. " So go, my son, and fight for me in the righteous cause. Strike down those accursed traitors and parricides — slay them, and spare not." With his son, Colonel Maunsel sent a veteran follower, to whose care he knew the young man could be safely confided; and the measure was very judicious, as the event proved. The faithful attendant to whom Clavering Maunsel was entrusted was an ancient trooper in the king's service, named John Habergeon, who had fought with the colonel in many a rude engagement with the rebels, and had bled with him at Naseby. Though numbering more years than his old master, John Habergeon's strength was by no means on the decline. Hoary was he as an Alp ; his gigantic frame was as hard as iron; and few younger men could cope with him in personal encounter. John Habergeon's exterior was by no means prepossessing.

His features were harsh, and his manner crabbed and stern. His figure was gaunt and tall; and he stood so stiff and erect that he lost not an inch of his stature. Yet under this rugged exterior there beat a heart tender as a woman's; and follower more faithful and devoted could not be found than trusty John Habergeon. It was not without some difficulty and danger that Clavering and his companion managed to reach Worcester, in which loyal city the adventurous young king had established his head-quarters. Though the new comer brought him no important levy of horse or foot, but only a single follower, Charles received the young man with great satisfaction, and well aware of his father's high character, misfortunes, and fidelity to the royal cause, at once bestowed upon him the command of a troop of horse under Colonel Wogan.