In the time of my great intimacy with dear William Stewart Rose—chiefly at Brighton, November, 1829, July, 1835—Rose’s frequent guest, and one of his most cherished friends, was a humble country curate, Charles Townsend, an Oxonian.
Everybody knows the quiet little village of Preston, on the high London Road, a mile or so from Brighton; and many may have remarked the quiet, ivy-covered parsonage house, with a little garden in front, and the gently ascending downs in the rear. It is many years since I saw it; but, though so near the high-road, it had always to me a delightful air of seclusion, seeming to hide itself, and to whisper, “Silence!” In the churchyard, close by, lie the remains of some who were very dear to me; of the church itself, I may say a word or two presently.
Poor Townsend, a bachelor,
approached his fiftieth year; and had been for many years, I think as many as fifteen, the
occupant of the house, as curate. The living was, I believe, a fat one; but the incumbent
rarely went near it, leaving pretty well all the duties to be performed by
Townsend, on a stipend of £100 a year. But the poor curate, in
addition to the house, had the enjoyment and benefit of a good garden which he well knew
how to cultivate, with a paddock and a bit more of glebe. Many are the instances I have
known in rural non-manufacturing districts, where the warmest affection existed between
| 258 | REV. C. TOWNSEND | [CHAP. XXVI |
Brighton, close at hand, teemed with dissenters of all sorts, not excluding the very worst sort. Some of these had pantiled* in Preston, but their conventicle was shut up before T. had been two years in the curacy. His scrupulous attention to all his duties, his constant attendance wherever there was sickness or sorrow, his fondness for children, his gentleness of manner, his happy capability of entering into all agricultural matters, his blameless, spotless life, his numerous charities—for out of his little he contrived to give to the poor—his benevolent and really beautiful countenance, produced this effect. Though a High Churchman, and of the very highest, and though earnest in his convictions and zealous for them, I do not believe that he ever talked, or so much as alluded, to dissent or schism either in the pulpit or out of it. An honest, plain-speaking farmer, whose life had been passed in the parish, said to me one day, “I was born and bred a dissenter, as my father and grandfather had been before me; but when our parson came, and mixed with us, and set us such an example in all that is good and kind and gentle, I took another course, and left our Bible-thumper. Then, bless you, sir, he is learned, and such a gentleman!”
We never knew anything of his family or connections, or previous associations and habits of life, but a “gentleman,” in the highest acceptation of the term, poor Townsend certainly was. Add to this, that he was a scholar, and a ripe and rare one. Rose considered him about the best Grecian he had ever known. He was deep in Plato—the most perfect Platonist I ever met with. And it was
* That is, built a chapel. Because dissenting chapels were often roofed with pantiles, or curved tiles. |
| CHAP. XXVI] | HIS POEMS AND ESSAYS | 259 |
He did not shoot or even fish; and as for hunting, with its expenses, it was quite out of the question with his narrow means; but he had that familiarity with sporting which is found, or which was found, in nearly every well-bred Englishman. He kept but one dog, the constant companion of his walks; and that dog, as an indication of his Royalist feeling, was a spaniel of the true, legitimate “King Charles” breed.
He was a most attentive and accurate observer of the habits of birds and
beasts, and of changes brought on by the revolving year, whether in the fields, on the
neighbouring downs, or in the garden I once read a few pages of a diary which he kept, and
which seemed to me as delightful as the best pages in White’s “Natural
History of Selborne.” The tone and style were like
White’s, but there was great originality in all the
observations, and a great deal that was thoroughly and essentially Townsend, and quite unlike the remarks of
White, or of any other writer. I know not if he continued this
diary, and Heaven knows what has become of the portion I saw written. Rose was possessed of the same taste for animated nature,
and was fonder than any man I ever knew of anecdotes and oddities
| 260 | REV. C. TOWNSEND | [CHAP. XXVI |
Many were the long evenings we passed at the fireside in discourse about dogs, bears, and monkeys. We had pleasant trifling, humour, and drollery, and plenty of it—especially from dear Rose—but I never once heard from either of these rare and delightful men any stilted commonplace or starched tautology. There was always mixed with this humour and drollery an under—or rather, an upper—current of serious thought. When Townsend became excited by his subject—poetry, the purest of Greek philosophy, the Christian Faith, or the like—the upward look of his eyes and his whole countenance were almost seraphic. Rose possessed a very clever, most true head of his friend, done in black chalk, while in one of these glorious moods. It was that sort of face that one sees in a few of the very best of old Italian pictures, a face that one may look at for an hour at a time.
I have seen among others, as well as among popular preachers, the
heavenward eyes, and an attempt at the whole-spiritualized expression; but in nearly every
such case I have traced or suspected some affectation. Townsend looked as he did, because he could not help it; his very soul
rushed I to his eyes and wreathed his lips into a smile that was quite unearthly. He was no
more conscious of it than is the glassy pool or lake of the presence of the beautiful
landscape that it reflects. Our parson was a great pedestrian, one that would walk to that
well-known ridge called the Devil’s Dyke and back again to Preston or to Brighton
before breakfast. Poor Rose, paralyzed on one side,
and frequently very weak, could walk but very little, and was scarcely safe without the
support of some friendly arm. So not being able to take sufficient exercise on foot, and
never fancying to do anything like other people, he kept, not a steady cob or stout pony,
but a little dappled
| CHAP. XXVI] | EXCURSIONS WITH ROSE | 261 |
This ass he had christened Velluti after the celebrated singer, and for reasons which I may explain hereafter. To make the donkey go, and for other homely purposes, he had taken into his service a rough, chubby young ploughboy, who spoke the Sussex dialect in perfection. I still see my whimsical, facetious friend jogging along the road, followed, or rather flanked, by this rustic squire, who had generally a broad grin on his face, produced by some of his master’s innumerable, interminable jokes. I was very often of the party, riding a capering, well-bred little mare, who with all her frolics could never discompose the gravity of Velluti. The people of Brighton were accustomed to the sight and took no notice, but Rose and his monture and queer attendant, who still wore his ploughboy dress, very often attracted the notice and raised the laughter of cockney and other incomers and visitors.
It was in the high days of mail and stage coaches; these vehicles were arriving at all times of the day, so that one could seldom go along the Preston Road without meeting some of them, crowded with passengers inside and out. Rose invariably joined in the laugh. It was his delight to call at the Parson’s nest, as he called Townsend’s house, to saunter a little in the garden, and then to get his friend to accompany him on a stroll across the breezy downs, Townsend walked and talked, and Rose talked and rode; the parson’s dog was far from being an unnoticed or inconsiderable member of the party, and Rose was always finding in him some new merit or quality. There was one particular spot on the downs, where they slope away gently towards Shoreham and the sea, at which the party generally came to a long halt, and on which Rose invariably became discursive and eloquent.
The shipping and the boats put him in mind of
| 262 | REV. C. TOWNSEND | [CHAP. XXVI |
It was a pity, it was a shame, it was a sin, to separate these attached, congenial spirits, and to tear the poor parson from his nest; but this happened. The old incumbent of Preston, whom Townsend had served so many years, departed this life, and the new rector wanted the curacy for a young friend or relative. The thought that this might some day happen had long cast occasional clouds over poor Townsend’s serenity. The honest parishioners, to whom he had so endeared himself, were in despair; but representations and gentle remonstrances were unavailing; Townsend was turned out of his nest, and put under the hard necessity of seeking a living elsewhere.
I would not undertake to be a Church reformer, but I cannot help feeling
that measures ought to be adopted to prevent the occurrence of so hard a case, which, I
believe, has not been uncommon. Ought not length of service, efficiency of ministration,
and a good man’s friendships, habits, and associations be taken into account? The
only curacy that could be found for him was one in crowded, noisy, smoky London, and in one
of the very worst parts of London—over the water, in Southwark—and poor Townsend could not afford to wait. On accepting what was
offered to him, Rose predicted what would happen:
“He will not live a year! The change is too great! He has been accustomed so
long to pure air and to a quiet, country life! What will he do in those close streets
in the Borough, among manufactories, warehouses, wharves, and shops, and among those
| CHAP. XXVI] | A PRESTON WALL-PAINTING | 263 |
Efforts were made to procure him another curacy in the country. Rose exerted his influence with Lord and Lady Holland, with his own elder brother, Sir George Rose, and with others; and I believe that Mr. Hallam, the historian, at his instance, applied in several quarters; but it was not to be, or not to be in time; Townsend fell sick, pined away, and died in little more than a year after his removal from Preston. Soon after his death and burial a suitable rural curacy presented itself.* Too late!
Townsend had much taste and knowledge in church antiquities and in general archaeology. He was a discoverer in this way. He found and brought to light, in the chancel of Preston Church, a very curious old wall-painting of the martyrdom of Thomas
* MacFarlane, I am glad to say, was misinformed, or his memory, after twenty years, played him false. The Rev. C. Townsend, after leaving Preston in 1837, was presented by Lord Egremont to the living of Kingston-by-the-Sea, near Brighton. He survived till the 29th January, 1870, and was buried in Preston churchyard, by the side of his father and mother. On a flat tombstone is the following inscription: “The Revd. Charles Townsend, M.A., formerly curate of Preston with Hove, and for 33 years Rector of Kingston-by-Sea. Born 4 Dec., 1789; died 29 Jan., 1870.
For this information I am indebted to the late Prebendary Moor, and to the Rev. B. Foster Palmer, Curate of Preston. |
| 264 | REV. C. TOWNSEND | [CHAP. XXVI |
In his rhymed epistle from Brighton to John Hookham Frere at Malta, Rose, three or four years before Townsend’s death, drew an admirable, living portrait of his friend and frequent guest, the parson.
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“Here, oft descending through a double swell,
I dive into a little wooded dell,
Embosoming a hamlet, church, and yard,
Whose graves, except a few of more regard,
(Where wood some record of the dead preserves,
Or harder stone) are ridged with humble turves,
O’ergrown with greenwood is the Curate’s rest;
So screened, it might be called the parson’s nest,
The chancel of the Church in ochry stain
Shows Becket’s death, before the altar
slain;
And here, in red and yellow lines we trace
A stiffness which appears not out of place.
And, as in Grecian vase, an antique grace;
While in the knightly murderers’ mail we read
The painter’s toil coeval with the deed.
Much joys the Curate to have first displayed
This rude design, with roughcast overlaid.
Simple are all his joys: books, garden, spaniel!
Yet lions he for Truth would dare, like Daniel.
Keen in the cause of Altar and of Throne,
My peerless parson, careless in his own,
Says in his heart (what poets do but sing),
‘That a glad poverty’s an honest thing.’
Dear is his dog, whom mouth of darkest dye
Makes dearer in a Tory Master’s eye.
Such is the pair: I to the man demur
Upon one point alone; he calls me ‘Sir’
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| CHAP. XXVI] | JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE | 265 |
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This priest and beast oft join me, where no harrow
Has raked the ground, by bottom, hill, or barrow;
Or, since new path and place new pleasure yield.
We rove by sheep-walk wide, and open field,
Where the red poppy and pale wheaten spike
Are mingled, to that ridge miscalled the dyke,
Deemed by our clowns a labour of the devil;
A height whose frowning brow o’erhangs a level,
Where the glad eye field, farm, and forest sees,
And grey smoke curling through the greenwood trees.”
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