Kenna's Kingdom: a Ramble Though Kingly Kensington
Brown, R. Weir
1881
CHAPTER VIII. THE CHURCH AND CHURCHYARD.
CHAPTER VIII. THE CHURCH AND CHURCHYARD.
NEARLY opposite the turning leading from , but on the opposite side of the High Street, stands the Parish church, a handsome Gothic edifice erected by the late Sir Gilbert Scott, but in spite of its architectural beauty, and its bravery of stained glass windows, with Kensington Church modern we have nothing to do. The old Parish Church is the object of our investigations, so this must be a mental ramble, though the old building is far more familiar to our eyes than the new. The handsome edifice that stands there now suggests but faint recollections of the square country-like Church that so recently occupied its place. Our ramble, this morn | |
160 | ing, then, must be among books and memory, rather than among places and things. |
Even in the times of Doomsday Book there were three virgates of land set aside for a priest. The next fact of importance solves the question-Why was the church called St. Mary Abbot's? It obtained the name thus: Geoffry, the eldest son of the first lord of Kensington, Aubrey de Vere, had been cured of an illness by the Abbot of Abingdon, and, on his deathbed he persuaded his father to bestow the church of Kensington on that monastery. Whether the dying Geoffry made this request out of gratitude for his cure, or, what is perhaps just as probable, as a sort of counter-balance for his sins, history sayeth not, but at all events, in the reign of Henry the First, St. Mary's became the property of the Abbot of Abingdon, and had the affix Abbot's added to its name to denote the change of ownership. | |
The De Veres, like most of the Norman aristocracy, were bountiful in their gifts to priests and monks, and among other endowments was one at Colne, in Essex. | |
In the beginning of the fourteenth century, the | |
161 | Prior of Colne and the Abbot of Abingdon quarrelled about the right to the monastery at Kensington. The dispute was settled in favour of the Abbot. The tithes and expenses were to be divided between the latter and the Vicar. The Bishop of London was to collate to the Vicarage, a privilege which is still in force. |
We may pass over some two centuries before anything interesting turns up again, but no doubt in that time the church was pulled down and rebuilt, or at all events repaired more than once. In the time of bluff king Hal, we find a notice of proceedings against one , who had got hold of an English translation of the New Testament, and another book, equally bad in the eyes of the Church, called " Unis Dissidentium," which was found to contain the Lutheran heresy. For this heinous offence he was cited to appear before the Vicar General (a recently appointed officer of the Romish Church, one of whose duties was to hunt up the followers of Luther) at St. Paul's, there to make oath, says the old record, that he would not retain these books nor sell them, nor lend them, and, on pain of excommunication, not to stay in London longer than a day and a night, nor to be | |
162 | suffered to come within four miles of the town for two years to come. All honour then to Sebastian Harris, surely his name should be handed down in the annals of the parish, side by side with that of the starry Veres; yes, even that of royalty itself. What the motive was that urged him to read the Scriptures in his own language, and to judge for himself the bold sayings of the German monk, we know not. But we, as a local inhabitant, would fain think of him as one of those who had begun to look around for themselves, to question whether priests knew so much more of God than other men; the leaders of that great movement known as the Reformation. A few years later Harris might have read his Testament in peace, for in an inventory of the Church goods, taken in the Protestant times of the young English Josiah, Edward the Sixth, we find one "Byble," probably Miles Coverdale's translation, mentioned among the " bowks." Beyond the Bible, the Church library was somewhat small. There was one "bowke of voyce" (the Hymns Ancient and Modern of those days), a " Saphlter Bowke," and the "Paraphrases of Erassymus." |
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In the same list figures a goodly array of vestments, and some copper and silver vessels. Most of these would be sold or destroyed at the time of the Reformation. Queen Mary did something to atone for the spoliation of the Church's property during her father's reign, and Queen Elizabeth leased the Church to a Court favourite in . | |
We hinted above that the Church had probably very much changed since the time when Aubrey de Vere handed it over to the Abbot. It has, in fact, obtained quite a celebrity for frequent patchings and renovations. Leigh Hunt says its continual alterations beat the silk stocking, the repeated mendings of which turned it into worsted, and adds that they were alway worsted, badly darned. Historically speaking,these mendings commenced about , when a new aisle was added on the south side; and the old Church had very little rest indeed till it was finally pulled down a few years ago. In the reign of William of Orange the whole building was levelled to the ground, except the "stone tower at the west end," and among the names of those who subscribed towards its re-erection are King William and the | |
164 | Princess Anne, the former of whom gave three hundred pounds and the latter fifty, while the Bishop of London is also put down for the latter amount. This must have been Compton, who had been Anne's tutor, and who escorted her to Northampton, armed and wearing jack-boots, in the troubled times of . During the two following centuries the patching, darning, pulling to pieces and setting up again went on, and no end of money was spent on the fabric. |
We suppose the old Church was very ugly; we have always found it called so in books, but one had got to reverence its old square walls, to forget that the font had no pretensions to antiquity, that the pews were unsightly and not over comfortable, and we look back even now with pleasure at the old rambling square pew, at the black tablets over the altar, at the funny-looking cherubim that occupied the pointed top of the painted window and which we somehow got into our infant head looked rather an incongruity, and at the odd pieces of holly and ivy that served for decoration at Christmas. The old church was full of childish memories; of the time when the clergyman read out that Susan Evans was to be married to some | |
165 | body else, and we felt such an intense desire to know who Susan Evans might be, that we turned round inquiringly to the occupants of the square pew and innocently asked-" Susan Evans, who's she "? and how we were instantly marched out, to remain in the porch till service was over. |
There was one huge door-shaped tablet on the left hand side of the altar that always possessed great interest for us, and we used to imagine it the entrance to some mysterious demesne that existed somewhere in the region of the wall. On one occasion we troubled the occupants of the square pew by coughing, until at length a compassionate lady made us a present of two of Wotherspoon's lozenges in a little paper packet, an offering which aroused our juvenile dignity, and which we ungraciously retained in our pocket until after the service, when we solemnly presented them to two friends. | |
These and other recollections crowd on us. | |
We cannot help thinking, too, somewhat regretfully, of the old churchyard, and while we quite appreciate the handsome new church with all its improvements, wish that it had been possible to have | |
168 | Countess, the remembrance of this disparity of rank blighted the match. But the story is at all events doubtful, though Addison evidently took much interest in the young earl, and encouraged a taste for natural beauties in him. In a playful letter written to his young friend, who was then about thirteen, and which reminds one of some of the papers in the Spectator, he invites him to a concert " which begins at six in the evening, and consists of a blackbird, a thrush, a robin red-breast, and a bull-finch, with a lark that sings by way of overture; conclusion by a nightingale with something of Italian manners in her diversions." With such a monitor, friend, or tutor as it may be, the young Earl of Warwick should have grown up a promising scion of an old race. Tradition, however, says otherwise. This was the young nobleman to whom Addison, on his death bed, addressed the memorable words, " See in what peace a Christian can die." It has been considered that the Earl must have been pretty bad to have needed such an admonition. If the incident actually took place we think the somewhat egotistical tone of the sentence does not at all redound to the poet's credit, but much depends upon the manner in |
169 | which the words were spoken, and remembering that the dead cannot answer, let us hope that the Earl may have stood by the bedside of his dying step-father and friend, without any necessity of remorse for past misconduct. Still resting our hand on the Earl of Warwick's shoulder, and peering about with our eyes among the stone bibles, heads, and half-defaced inscription, the following epitaph attracts our notice: |
" George Colman, Patentee of the Theatre Royal, Haymarket: Author of the Jealous Wife, and of various other works of literary eminence. Died 14th August, ." | |
This was George Colman the elder, his father, Francis Colman, and his son George Colman the younger, were also buried here. All of them wrote for the stage. We are afraid we shall miss a great many interesting monuments, as the tablets are piled up here like flag stones waiting for use. Working our way out of the shed, past the bust of Renell, vicar of the parish, past the big bell on which we distinguish the word "Hallelujah," past machinery, and what looks like rubbish of all kinds, we catch sight of a weatherworn blue and red tablet just outside, to the | |
170 | memory of " Reginald Spofforth, glee composer." We did not see the name of Dr. Warren, but he was buried here, and we must mention him, if only to tell our readers of a pleasant answer he made to the question, "If doctors must not be continually miserable thinking of the number of their dead patients whom a different treatment might perhaps have saved?" "The balance between satisfaction and remorse, must," returned the doctor, "be greatly in favour of satisfaction, and, as an instance of it, I hope to have the pleasure of curing you forty times before I kill you." Dr. Warren had the finest eyes in the world, at least, so says Mrs. Inchbald, who was secretly in love with him. She herself lies here, not far from him she loved, in the western corner of the churchyard. We have come across her in one of our rambles already, and may do so again, for Kensington was her favourite dwelling place. , Little Hol!and House, Earl's Court Terrace, and Leonard's Placethe authoress of the simple story has resided in them all. One can scarcely speak too highly of Mrs. Inchbald. The only fault of which she has ever been accused was her profession, and the life of an |
171 | actress may, perhaps, have somewhat marred the character it could not spoil. Thrown on the world at the age of sixteen, owing to the loss of her father, she seems, notwithstanding her many trials and the fame which she reached at last, to have continued selfsacrificing to her death at the age of sixty-seven; always wishing to please others, and always cheerful. It is sad to say, after speaking of such a woman, that she brought on her own death by tight lacing. We may say more about her the next time she crosses our path, as, in so solemn a place we should wish to speak rather of people's virtues than their foibles, or their vices. Mrs. Inchbald has made us think of Kensington House, and of our old friend James Elphinstone, who had a marble tablet inscribed to his memory here. He was buried quite close to Dr. Jortin, scholar, theological writer, and wit, who "ceased to be mortal," as his inscription quaintly expresses it, at the age of seventyone. Faulkner gives one anecdote of him in his " History of Kensington," which is repeated by Leigh Hunt, and poor as it is, we suppose we must follow suite. When Jortin returned into the ante-chamber after the interview with the bishop who gave him his |
172 | vicarage, he could not find his hat, and summed up the events of the day on his return home by saying, " I have lost my hat, but got a living." Leigh Hunt, whom we mentioned above, used to say the churchyard was too near the bustling streets. If he thought so twenty years ago, what would he have said now ? He lies in Kensal-green Cemetery safe from the turmoil of the great city. |
We missed many of the old inscriptions, and sincerely hope there is no truth in the report that " many old brasses and monuments were either destroyed or sold as 'rubbish."' How such utter want of feeling, of taste, of reverence could be shown, we cannot imagine. The church possessed the usual amount of quaint epitaphs, among which the usual examples of those inscriptions which strive to keep up some didatic personality even beyond the grave were to be found. In an oval over the churchwardens' pew, Mr. Lionel Ducket somewhat startlingly reminded us that:
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Mr. Thomas Wright bade this vain world farewell, | |
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and informed us that he has had enough of it, nor
values what it may say of him. " What faults you've
seen in me," he concludes,' take care to shun; go
home, and see there's something to be done." And
certainly one fault Mr. Wright seems to have possessed, an insufferable amount of conceit. The
following on a flat stone in the Churchyard to a
young lady of seventeen, must, we should think, have
proceeded from the pen of her lover:
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After all, is there not much of worldly parade and conceit in thus puffing off the virtues of deceased relatives to every casual passer by? Surely the remembrance of our lost ones, except the world claim them among its great, are best enshrined in our own bosoms. | |
The alterations consequent on the rebuilding of the Church, have certainly taken away all the charm of country seclusion from Kensington Churchyard. The level of the ground has been raised by some feet, and those tombstones which have not been raised too are almost hidden within four walls of earth. We suppose | |
174 | such things are unavoidable, and that in this busy, improving, building age, even God's acres cannot remain undisturbed. Such a train of thoughts makes us wonder whether after all cremation is so uncomfortable an idea. Surely we would rather have the remains of those we loved near to us, and in such a form that they would be but memorials, than think of them tossing about, where all traces of their identity must soon be lost. From a sanitary point of view, the question is, perhaps, still more important, and as the dead must always give way to the living it may not, perhaps, be long before tombstones are a thing of the past, and will be hunted up by antiquarians with as much zest as Roman urns are at present. |
