Articles by Frank Major

THE TEMPEST

With enthusiastic support from Katharine, the Barbican presented for several weeks an exciting production of The Tempest by Jericho House, a young highly professional company, which had just completed a very successful tour in the Middle East. Directed with panache by Jonathan Holmes, the play was given an extra dimension by being performed in our historic and medieval church of St Giles’, which provided it with an ideal setting, of which the director made full use.

The Tempest at one level is a fairy tale, complete with magical occurrences, the suspension of the laws of nature, a handsome prince and princess and, after much turmoil, a happy ending. However, it is much more than this, dealing as it does with a number of serious themes: love, suffering, reconciliation, sin and repentance, evil and redemption. It also embraces political themes like exile, immigration, colonialism, territorial combat, all of which are familiar to us today. However, this production, radical though it is, sidelines these issues in favour of enchantment, magic and musicality.

First performed at the Court of James 1^st in November 1611, the main plot of The Tempest revolves around Prospero’s efforts to regain his kingdom of Milan and to undo the evil which has been perpetuated against him and his daughter Miranda. The entire action, apart from the first scene, is confined to an island, located vaguely in the Mediterranean, a strange, tropical paradise suggesting mystery and romance, and an idea setting for the exercise of magical charms.

This the production brilliantly captured in the chancel of the church with Lucy Wilkinson’s simple but colourful and effective set, illuminated by battery of lights suspended halfway up the walls and by a myriad of hanging lanterns of various hues. What makes St Giles’ an ideal venue is that the outside lighting, infiltrating through the stained glass of the east window, cast a warm, romantic glow over the proceedings.

The action of the play begins on a ship at sea during a wild storm. It is a dramatically effective opening, and the production rises to the occasion with very convincing sound effects of peals of thunder and of pounding waves, confusion conveyed by reeling characters and swinging lamps. It strikes the keynote of the production, a tour de force of noise, movement and energy and yet of sweet music too. It is this storm which gives the title to the play as well as being a metaphor for the passions and turmoil of its characters. It also cuts the characters from the natural world and isolates them (a common dramatic device) on a mysterious island, where, like the storm, the passions are transformed with the promise of peace with which the play ends.

Although it s a powerful production, it is by no means a traditional one. The male characters particularly are in modern dress but this does not detract from the romantic and magical ambience of the island. The cream suits and the exotic colouring of the decor exude a Mediterranean air. However, there are a few puzzling things about the production. The character of Gonzalo, who plays quite an important part especially in the early scenes, is omitted altogether.

Then, not only is there a gender change when Antonio, Prospero’s brother, becomes Antonia and Stephano, Alonso’s butler          Stephanie, but they are played by the same actor, Nathalie Armin, who acquits herself very well, making the most of the comedic opportunities it provides. Strangely enough, gender change was a common feature of the productions of this play for two centuries, and it was not until the early part of the 19^th century that it was seen again in its unadulterated form.

Prospero, the chief character, who controls the supernatural elements and the activities of the other characters, is usually portrayed as an elderly man, garbed very convincingly as a magician. Here, in Alan Cox, we have much more youthful Prospero, who, although perhaps he lacks the gravitas of a being who could control the elements and move people about like pawns, still gives an effective and well articulated performance.

The Tempest is the most musical of Shakespeare’s plays; music is an integral part of the drama and is heard throughout the production, underlying the action and developing character, in full throttle in the thunderous peal of the organ, in the limpid strains of the lute and in the songs taken from the 1611 production of The Tempest.

Ariel, sometimes in sweet voice, plays a vital role here, but in the hands of Ruth Lass she is not the “dainty” Ariel of Prospero’s description but a wild spirit of harsh countenance and unkempt hair, rushing to and fro with cries and screams while carrying out her master’s wishes.  Strongly acted, energetically and sensitively directed, visually and audibly impressive, the production was a great credit to Jericho House, and we hope that Katharine will be able to persuade them to visit us again.

THE CRIES OF LONDON

Beggars and their Cries

Beggars may have got itinerant traders a bad name, using as they did the same vocal means of attracting attention. Mayhew wrote that street criers covered the complete range from shameless imposters to “marvels of ingenuity and industry”. Some beggars pretended to be wounded soldiers; others sported artificial sores or pretended to be lunatics. Sailors frequently used this cry: “My worthy heart, stow a copper in Jack’s locker, for poor Jack had not had a quid today”. Some used this cry who had never seen a ship except from London Bridge. They went by the name of “fresh water sailors”, and were common enough in the 19^th century. 

Many petty criminals used street selling as a cover for their nefarious activities. Andrew Tuer, the 19^th century author of “Old London Street Cries”, recalled that “one shivering coatless vagabond persuaded him to purchase a tract by displaying “an eruption of biceps perfectly appalling in its magnitude”. He also tells of a toy seller who used ventriloquism to persuade customers that his Jack-in-Box had a voice. The mispronunciation was similarly employed for the purpose of deception. “Three underd an’ fifty songs for a penny” was really three under 50 songs for a penny”.

Tuer concluded, however, that “Street criers are honest enough in the main. If vegetables are a little stale, fruit is suspiciously overripe, they do not feel call upon to mention these facts, but they give bouncing penn’orths, and their clients are shrewd enough to take care of themselves”.

MOLLIE’S 90^TH BIRTHDAY PARTY

The chief celebration took play in Baracca restaurant on Mollie’s actual birthday on Friday October 7^th, and it was a very happy occasion indeed. Organised by David and Beryl, the party included both past and present members of St Giles’.

Baracca’s has been for a good number years a popular venue for our gatherings. Not only are the food and wines good, but the proprietors, Ramon, Yvonne and their son Alan, always create a very welcoming and friendly atmosphere. It is always a pleasure to go there, especially for most of us it is practically on our doorstep, with no travelling involved.

After Beryl had presented Mollie with a special birthday cake, David said that Mollie had for a great number of years been a pillar of the church, first at St Luke’s (now a musical centre) and then, after it was closed as a dangerous structure, at St Giles’, when it reopened following its restoration and where she had been the Sacristan.

Mollie in reply thanked Beryl for her cake and all of us for coming to her party. She said that she had been very happy in her work at both St Luke’s and St Giles’ and they had meant very much to her.

David then said that we were celebrating two other birthdays as well:  Gladys’s, who was now 89 and Lesley Bradshaw’s, our former Administrator, who had come with all her family and not looking a day older than when she had been working in the church. To all three ladies separately we sang “Happy Birthday to you”.

On Sunday the 9^th, after the 10 o’clock service, a second celebration took place over coffee and cakes, which included Beryl’s prize bread pudding. As a salute to Mollie for all her work for the church, Anne and the Choir sang a song that they had specially composed about her.

THREE CANALS, TWO RIVERS AND A BASIN

A walk along the Regent's Canal to the Limehouse Basin

A parish ramble along the canal took place on 14^th August. After dreary-looking skies that morning, the sun came out by the start of the ramble, making it a pleasant summer afternoon – something of a rarity this year, and worth taking advantage of.

The walk began at the Angel, where we headed down Colebrooke Row to join the Regent's Canal. Colebrooke Row follows the line of where the New River once ran, one of the rivers of the walk's title. Despite it's name, the New River is in fact a canal which opened in 1613 and brought fresh water from Hertfordshire to London, terminating near Sadler's Wells. Parts are still in use and continue to supply water to London.

We joined the Regent's Canal as it emerges from Islington Tunnel. Tunnels such as this were once much more of a challenge to navigate than they are now, as there are no towpaths running though them. The horses that drew the barges would have to be taken over the bridge to where the towpath began again on the other side of the tunnel. Meanwhile, the boatmen would have to lie on their backs on the top of their vessels and use their feet on the tunnel's roof to walk the boat through. In the dark this was a risky business!

We headed eastwards alongside the canal as it moves towards Hackney, passing brightly painted narrowboats, geese, coots, and several sleepy barge cats dozing in the unexpected sunshine. A temporary closure of a section of the towpath necessitated a short detour around several side streets before we were able to re-join the canal at Kingsland Road bridge. At this point the canal, and our route began to head south, as we continued to walk alongside the water whilst dodging the multitude of cyclists following the same route, some, in passing us, riding very close to the edge. Luckily no one ended up in the water!

Victoria Park provided the opportunity for another short diversion from the line of the canal as we strolled through a section of it before re-emerging to cross the Hertford Union Canal and rejoin the Regent's Canal where the two meet at Old Ford Cross. The Hertford Union Canal is also known as Ducketts and is the second canal of our walk's title. We continued on, past Mile End Lock, passing renovated buildings and student accommodation for Queen Mary's University, eventually reaching Limehouse Basin. Here the Regent's Canal meets a third canal, Limehouse Cut, and just beyond is the Limehouse Basin tidal lock, leading to the Thames.

Limehouse was where London's first Chinatown was located, populated initially by Chinese sailors and merchants, and then by other settlers throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Like many parts of East London, it suffered during the Second World War, after which the Chinese community relocated and the Soho Chinatown we are familiar with developed.

Limehouse marked the end of our route for the afternoon. It is also a potential starting point for another parish walk along Three Mills, Bow Back Rivers to the Olympic Village at Stratford and beyond, which will hopefully take place in the near future.

Joanne Williams

FAMILY SAGA - 1930’S STYLE

Oh, To Be Beside the Seaside

Southend had been the Elysian Fields by the Sea for Londoners for generations. It was often there that they had the first and perhaps the only glimpse of the sea some had ever had. To Sam and Joe it had a special fascination. Old Georgian houses still survived, but only in patches, long ago overshadowed and dwarfed by the Victorian and Edwardian builders, catering for the better-off middle classes.

The coach meandered first along nondescript streets lying on the outskirts of the town; then it turned right down a road where modern, elegant detached houses with balconies stood serenely on each side. At the end, a wide road ran the whole length of the promenade, and from there Sam and Joe could see Southend stretching ahead into the distance. The sea, its muddy depths flicked with light touches of green, lapped lazily on to the pebbly shore. Sea gulls with plaintive cries twirled into the air before pouncing down on to a tasty morsel that the water had exposed. Afar off, tramp steamers chugged slowly to the estuary, while nearer the shore sailing boats skimmed along, their white sails billowing out as they were caught by the fresh breeze. On the landside, Sam and Joe noticed the landscaped gardens hugging the high cliffs and the modern, tasteful villas at their feet.

The promenade was crowded with visitors, gaily dressed and in holiday mood, breathing in the fresh air with its salty tang. Children scurried along, pulling harassed parents towards the beach, where people in their different garbs were sprawled out on rugs or in deck chairs. Others were paddling nonchantly at the water’s edge, while the more adventurous swam to and fro, some puffing and blowing like porpoises.

The coach pulled up by the pier, which, stretching one and a half miles out into the muddy waters, gave Southend its chief claim to fame. Turning round, the driver called to Carrie, “OK, lady, I’m parking here”.

“Good idea”, replied Carrie, glad to agree with the driver for once, and then addressing the whole party, she shouted, “We leave here at 6pm sharp. Have jolly day everyone.” The party noisily gathered up their belongings, and once out of the coach, meandered off into various groups. The Wilson family made for the beach, and finding a pleasant spot by a breakwater, spread out their blankets and began eating their sandwiches. But it wasn’t long before Ivy and Violet got up, and followed by Sam and Joe sauntered along the promenade. Sam and Joe noticed how Ivy and Violet giggled as two good looking young men whistled at them as they sped by on their motor bikes.

“That one on the pillion reminded me of Reg”, exclaimed Ivy rather sadly. “Haven’t you got over him yet?” retorted Violet rather testily, as though addressing a two-year old.  “No, I haven’t,” replied Ivy, rather put out by Violet’s unsympathetic manner towards her love affair which she still regarded as her great tragedy. Then she began to sniffle, which irritated Violet all the more. 

Sam and Joe knew all about the Reg Crosland saga. They had heard it in weekly instalments like a never-ending serial each Monday evening when Ivy called on the Wilson family. They heard it all with mouths agape, and although they never said anything they thought about it all the more. They weren’t quite sure which they enjoyed more, listening to Ivy’s tale of woe or Charles Dickens’s “Barnaby Rudge” on the radio.

Reg, a rather ordinary looking boy of 18, had been Ivy’s steady boy-friend for about a year. The romance had blossomed, although Violet hadn’t really approved. “He’s far too young for you, Ivy”, advised Violet, playing the unsolicited agony aunt. Although only 3 years separated them, for a girl of 21 to go out with a boy of 18 smacked to Violet and to a good many of those in the parish as a case of baby-snatching of the worst order.  Ivy, her eyes blinkered with the love she felt, chose to ignore what she considered catty advice, even though it was from her best friend.

And then calamity struck right on cue.  The blossom of the romance withered by the touch of an icy wind. Reg had fallen for another girl who lived two streets away from him and, it must he admitted, nearer in age to his own. Ivy, clutching her love like a drowning man at a straw, just couldn’t believe it. When at long last she had to accept the inevitable, she always claimed that her poor Reg had been enticed away by the machinations of an unscrupulous, well she could hardly say the word, a mousey little thing not much older than a school girl. Carrie, noticing that Ivy was looking rather peaky and not her usual ebullient self, asked, “What’s the matter, Ivy?” and Ivy poured out her tale of woe.  

“Reg had left me for Dora Chumley”, moaned Ivy, and then added bitterly, “I wouldn’t mind if she was a real woman, but she is just a half-baked school girl”, although what she meant by that she didn’t say.

“Oh, never mind, Ivy”, murmured Carrie sympathetically, and using one of her favourite expressions, added, “There’s worse troubles at sea”.

Ivy, determined not to be consoled, and wrapping her grief round her liked an expensive mink coat, went on, “And after all I have done for him too. I’ve even paid for his lunches when he’s been hard up”. Ivy made it sound like a sacrifice well beyond the call of duty

Carrie, who had never shed a tear for any man, said kindly, “You know, Ivy, you were far too good for him”. Ivy perked up momentarily at this, but then wailed, “But I still love him”. “You’ll soon get over it”, encouraged Carrie, adding, “There’s more than one fish in the sea”, again using one of her favourite expressions.

Dora Chumley was in fact nobody’s idea of a femme fatale. Even Sam and Joe thought she was a plain little thing, and Carrie, who disliked her and Reg in about equal measure, thought they both thoroughly deserved each other. Sam and Joe, of course, sat as silent spectators, soaking up this romantic drama as it neared it bitter denouement. To them it was practically as good as a Joan Crawford movie; nobody could suffer so eloquently or shed tears so copiously as Joan. For weeks they had heard Ivy’s eulogy of Reg when the romance had been bludgeoning like a rose in June. They heard how Reg had first held her hand at the parish dance, how he has first asked her out, how they had gone out for walks and how Ivy considered she had her glimpse of Paradise when Reg had kissed her in the moonlight.

Sam and Joe soon realised that they were listening to a cliche-ridden romance that had all the makings of a Hollywood B picture, a real six hanky tear-jerker. They had got to know what ties Reg liked, what his favourite dishes were, and they would always remember the occasion when Ivy, with all the reverence of a nun, unwrapped for all the whole Wilson family to see Reg’s birthday present to her. Sam and Joe noticed how delicately and reverentially Ivy untied the string of the parcel in which the present was wrapped. The present in fact was only a bottle of Yardley’s lavender water, but from the way Ivy handled it, almost fondled it, you would have thought it as at the very least a bottle of Chanel No 5. Sam and Joe were not a bit impressed. They had been told on the good authority of Violet that Yardley’s lavender water was considered old maid’s scent, and their book old maids were only one step higher than single girls with babies, and on that assessment they had the expert authority of Carrie.

And when Dora Chumley entered the picture, they heard a great catalogue of sacrifices that Ivy had made on behalf of her erstwhile swain: how she had got up half and hour early so that they could both go up to the City together; how she had sacrificed her Saturday afternoons to go and make tea for the parish football club that Reg belonged to, and how she had tried desperately to get interested in the game she secretly loathed. The Wilson family also heard how it was that some of her hard-earned cash that had help pay for Reg’s holiday with his mother of all people, whom she couldn’t abide and whom she suspected had put an extra spoke in the wheel of her shattered romance.

Sam and Joe, being of an age when relationships came and went, couldn’t quite understand the intensity of Ivy’s infatuation, a word they had picked up from Violet. And in addition neither Reg nor Dora were their favourite people. Where Carrie thought of him primarily as a pimply youth who needed a good dose of salts every week, Sam and Joe knew him for a bully who had tried to terrorise them on several occasions. Reg was a scout, although what his good deeds for the day were it was difficult to fathom. As cubs there were often brought into contact with him and he took a delight in teasing them. For their part, Sam and Joe when they were a safe enough distance away would hurl abuse at him and then run for their lives. Having been brought up in the vicinity of the market, they had a variety of vocabulary at their disposal.

One day they got the shock of their lives. It was during the time when Ivy’s lamentations were in full swing. They were just getting to line up outside church, the cubs and scouts together, when Reg suddenly pounced on them and putting his face close to theirs, hissed, “I’d like to marry your sister”. Both were speechless for what seemed like hours, but could only have been a few seconds. Eventually, Sam blurted out, “Wouldn’t you like to marry Ivy?” Sam seemed to have developed an instinct for fair play.

“What her!” he responded, “I wouldn’t touch her with a barge pole”.

Sam and Joe were aghast, not for Reg’s passion for Violet, for they knew that such sentiment was fairly common among the young bloods of the parish, but for his utter rejection of Ivy. They didn’t perhaps know it, but they were having their first lesson in the treachery of the human heart. To think of poor Ivy breaking her heart, lamenting week after week over a person who didn’t care a fig for her, casting her off like a worn-out old glove. It was something that they would never forget.

AN ENIGMA PAINTING

In Dr Johnson’s house in Gough Square, just off Fleet Street, is a painting entitled “John Wesley preaching in Chapel of Ease, Old Cripplegate Church”. Attributed to the artist Francis Hayman (c 1708-1776), it also depicts Dr Johnson and Oliver Goldsmith as members of the congregation. For number of reasons there is quite a mystery attached to this painting, and Peter Forsyth of Oxford has set about unravelling it.

Peter first discussed the subject itself. Although there is a reference in John Wesley’s diary, dated 18^th December, 1783, that he had met Dr Johnson at least on one occasion, there is no record of Wesley preaching before Johnson and Goldsmith, nor is Wesley known to have preached in St Giles’ Cripplegate after 1739.

Moreover, the preacher depicted does not resemble Wesley facially or in general appearance. He also seems to be wearing a Geneva gown, whereas Wesley would probably have worn an Oxford MA gown over a cassock. These conclusions Peter drew from two sources: a portrait of Wesley by Nathaniel Home, dated 1766, and from a book entitled “Dressed neat and plain; the clothing of John Wesley and his teaching on dress”, by Edwina Ehrma.

Peter next discussed that location depicted in the painting, acknowledging his indebtedness to Dr Christopher Wakeling of the University of Keele.  He said that it had been variously proposed that the church was either St Giles’ Cripplegate or a chapel of ease to it. The latter suggestion is perhaps associated with St Luke’s, Old Street, which Wesley attended and of which he and his brother Charles became curates. It had been a parish church in its own right since 1733, having been built in the parish of St Giles’ under the Fifty New Churches Act of 1711, although in fact only 12 were built.

However, continued Peter, the architectural details in the painting are not easily reconciled with either of the two churches and so a conclusive identification of the location is still awaited. Also, the depicting of church services is not a strong feature of 18^th century painting, notwithstanding Hogarth’s famous engravings, and the present picture may reflect the 17^th century Dutch tradition.

Peter then dealt with the artist himself. Referring to Brian Allen’s book “Francis Hayman”, he says that Hayman is not known to have painted such a picture, and in any case it composition and technique is foreign to the artist. Further, it seems that Dr Johnson’s House acquired the painting in 1921.  Its previous history is not known at the present, and there is no record of its being included among recognised images of Wesley before the mid-20^th century.

Peter then concluded that the current description and attribution for the picture is untenable at present, and further detailed research is needed to be undertaken on all the above aspects before any firmer conclusion is possible.

THE RECTOR OF CHIGWELL KEEPS HIS EYE ON THE BALL

About 12 miles or so north-east of London lays the picturesque village of Chigwell. It has an intriguing history. It was once on one of the important Roman roads radiating from Londinium, and a Roman army was permanently encamped there. The village was mentioned in Domesday Book and had formerly been owned by King Harold, killed at the Battle of Hastings. Now, of course, it is part of a huge conurbation as the 20^th century left its indelible mark, with the rapid growth in the neighbourhood of myriad of semis and what estate agents call desirable residencies, and with the persistent hum of traffic speeding along the motorway etched across the country to the west and north.

Yet on its eastern side the village is edged with farming land and fields of corn in summer, and the view towards the woody slopes of Lambourne and along the Roding Valley to Ongar and beyond is impressive. The village itself still retains its old-world charm, largely because its main street is graced with a triptych of three fine historical buildings: a school, an inn and a church, and pretty houses of various designs, many of which are fronted with white fencing.

The School and the Inn

Chigwell School in the early 17^th century was an attractive building consisting of its original school room. To this, a sash-windowed house was added at right angles by the Headmaster, Peter Burford, in 1776, and a large rear-extension in 1871. Its most famous pupil is William Penn, the Quaker, after whom the American state of Pennsylvania is named.

Practically opposite the school is the King’s Head, a former coaching-inn, a very imposing structure, dating probably from Elizabeth’s reign and with a 17^th century facade topped by five gables projecting above two storeys. The inn was made famous by Charles Dickens in his novel “Barnaby Rudge”, where it was features as the “Maypole”. Reputed to have written most of the book there, he described it as “an old building, with more gable ends that a lazy man could care to count on a sunny day, and possessing “huge zigzag chimneys, “old diamond-pane lattices”, overhanging storeys, drowsy little panes of glass and a front building projecting over the pathway”. The inn, well spruced up now, is not so different today.

There have been, and still are, other impressive buildings in the area. South of the church is Chigwell Hall, designed and built by Norman Shaw in 1876 and now used by the Metropolitan Police. Of great historic interest is Woolston Hall, built by the Scott family in about 1600 on earlier foundations. One of the family, William Scott, became a Benedictine priest in Spain. When he returned in 1610, he was imprisoned on charge of high treason, and after a year was exiled because of his allegiance to Rome. He came back again two years later under an assumed name, but was arrested and on May 12^th was hanged at Tyburn. It was the Scott family that substantially financed the enlargement of Chigwell Church in the late 15^th century, providing a fine timber roof in the south aisle, still intact, and the pillars down the centre and north aisles.

Just outside the village was the former Rolls Park, the residence of Captain Eliah Harvey, one of Nelson’s band of brothers, a once beautiful house built about 1600 and now demolished. Its Georgian stables were converted to a bungalow and two of the garden seats were alleged to be made from the timber from Harvey’s “Fighting Timeraire”. The erosions of time can be sad.

The Church of St Mary’s

Opposite the King’s head is the church of St Mary’s. I have visited Chigwell hundreds of times since the 1920s, but, although I have visited the church on a few occasions, I have never attended a service there, a deficiency I was determined to remedy. I approached it across the fields from Labourne Road, which had been built in the 18^th century, just north of Hainault Forest, and its commanding view across the Thames valley made it a favourite locality for London merchants to have their houses built along it. Crossing a corn field, I spotted Chigwell Church, its copper spire and white bell tower jutting out from among the trees. The tower, containing six bells recast in 1910, was erected about 1475 on eight posts standing independently of the rest of the church. It is said when the bells ring you can see the top of the spire moving to the music.

As you approach the church, you can see it has a characteristic 15^th century Essex look about it. The south aisle is certainly of that date, although parts of the first stone church, built about 1160, still remain, particularly in the fine Norman doorway and parts of the south wall.

The service was conducted in the new nave which was completed in 1887. Sir Arthur Blomfield was commissioned to remove the north aisle  and galleries and enlarge the church. The present nave and chancel are the result, built in the 15^th century perpendicular style. The old church became the present south aisle and the Lady Chapel. The reason why so many of the windows are relatively new is that on February 23^rd, 1941, a bomb exploded near the churchyard wall, the blast shattering the windows and damaging the yew tree.

The interior of the church has an air of light and space and contains some very interesting features. On the rafters of the south aisle there is the finest collection of patchwork or funeral escutcheons in Essex. These lozenge-shaped panels were formerly hung in front of a house as a sign of mourning. If the background is all black, the person who died has left no wife. If the left half of the background only is black, then a husband has died leaving no wife; and if the right hand only is black, then a wife has died and her husband survives her. The Royal Arms of George 11 at the west end of the rafters is there because Reuben Clarke, who was vicar here between 1727 and 1746, was royal chaplain.

The Worthies of Chigwell

Like the vicars of St Giles’, the lives of some of the vicars of Chigwell reflect the political and religious changes taking place in the 16^th and 17^th centuries. Perhaps the most famous of the vicars was John Rogers, who met William Tyndale and supervised the second version of the Bible into English. He combined Tyndale’s translation of the New Testament and of the Old Testament (from Genesis to 11 Chronicles) with Coverdale’s version of the rest of the Old Testament. In Queen Mary 1’s reign, he was condemned as a heretic and burned at Smithfield on February 4^th, 1555, the first martyr for his faith in that reign. Also deprived of his living was Emmanuel Uty during the Civil War, but was reinstated on the return of Charles 11. It is also interesting to learn that our own Lancelot Andrewes’ brother Robert was vicar here 1605- 1606.

Another famous vicar was Samuel Hasnett, son of a baker in Colchester and vicar of Chigwell from 1597 until 1605. He eventually became the Archbishop of York in 1628. In 1629 he founded in 1629 a Latin School, now Chigwell School, and an English School, now Chigwell Primary. He decreed that the Latin Schoolmaster be “of sound religion, neither Papist nor Puritan, of a grave behaviour, of a sober and honest conversation”.

The brass to Samuel is said to be one of the finest of its kind in the country. The archbishop is in full vestments and has life-like features even down to a cast in one eye. Translated, the words read: “Here lies Samuel Hasnett, formerly vicar of this church, first Bishop of Chichester; next the more unworthy Bishop of Norwich, and finally the most unworthy Archbishop of York, who died on 25.5.1631, which very epitaph, out of his abundant humility, this most revered prelate arranged in his will to be placed for himself”. It is very interesting to note that our own Lancelot Andrewes also became the Bishop of Chichester and the Archbishop of York, but his last resting place was not nearly so humble, being in a magnificent tomb in York Minster.

Finally, in the church is a bronze plaque to George Shillibeer (1797-1866), the inventor of the London omnibus. He lived in Chigwell Row and is buried in the churchyard. His horse-drawn bus carried 22 passengers and made its first journey on July 4^th, 1829 from Marylebone Road to the City.

The Service

The service I attended, quite fortuitously, was the family one held in the new nave. The congregation, filling most of the pews, was a mixture, like ours, of the young married with babies and the middle-aged and the elderly, all dressed in bright summer clothes. They seemed lively, friendly and responsive, just like us.

The most intriguing part of the service was the sermon by the Rector, the Revd Peter Trendall. He began by saying that he was shortly going on holiday and he was looking forward to playing quite a lot of his favourite game of golf. But first he wanted to show us something. Rather mystified, we watched him go to the side and return with a huge bag of golf clubs slung over his shoulder. Putting the bag against one of the pews, he admitted that, although he had been playing for 30 years, he felt that his game had not improved much. He then extracted a putter and placed a golf ball near his feet, while one of the boys in the congregation, centred halfway down the aisle, placed a plastic object representing a hole in a green.

The Rector explained that in his early days he had been given lots of advice about playing. One friend said that he was not holding the club correctly and proceeded to show him a new grip. Another friend said he was standing with his feet too far apart, but it wasn’t until a third friend advises him to keep his eye always on the ball that his game began to improve.

So, continued the Rector, just as in ball-game you need to keep your eye on the ball, so in life you need to keep your eye on Jesus. The apostle Peter, in his attempt to walk on the water, floundered when he took his eye off Christ, who had to come to his aid. So we will come to grief if we take our eye off Him as well.

The Rector then proceeded to put three balls in succession down the aisle. They were not “hole-in-one” shots as the balls meandered a little too much to the left. The Rector then extracted an “iron” and whacked a further three balls down the aisle. This time they sailed high in the air, either to be caught rather deftly by one of the boys or striking the wall at the back of the church. I haven’t played golf for many years, but the sermon with its very striking visual aid was definitely a “birdie”.

LOOKING FOR NOEL COWARD

We knew that the famous actor and playwright had for many years lived at Goldenhurst, a 15^th century house in Kent on the edge of Romney Marsh, a favourite part of England for him and for us as well. We had heard that in the 20s and 30s fabulous weekend parties had taken place there, attended by the glitterati of high society and of the theatre and film world, people like Spencer Tracey, Katherine Hepburn and Marlene Dietrich. We decided to explore. All we knew that the house was in or near the village of Aldington, about 10 miles from Folkestone.

Our acquaintance with Romney Marsh had begun in the 30s when most of our school during the last 3 weeks of the summer term was evacuated to a camp in Dymchurch, small village on the Kent coast, from where we were able to explore the Marsh on bicycles, quite the best way of seeing it. Flat, low-lying, below sea-level in parts, it is dotted with picturesque villages and medieval churches. At one time the whole area was under water and sea-shells have been recovered 5 miles inland. At least from medieval times the area was drained and it is still crisscrossed with ditches to drain away the water. Great help in this process is the Royal Military Canal, 28 miles long and built during the Napoleonic Wars.

As one would expect, Romney March is rich in history. It contains two of the original Cinque Ports, New Romney and Hythe, that were of immense strategic importance for centuries, opposite as they were the narrowest part of the English Channel. They were established by Royal Charter in 1155 to provide ships for the Crown in time of emergency, in return for exemption from taxes and tolls. Not as important or renowned as Dover and Hastings, New Romney and Hythe as with some of the others, declined in importance over the years. New Romney, its harbour long silted up, is now over 1 mile from the sea, and as for Hythe, although it is still on the coast, its harbour also silted up many years ago.

Romney Marsh is also associated with the Napoleonic Wars. Besides the Royal Military Canal, 74 Martello Towers were built along the south coast between 1805 and 1808 as a defence against a possible French invasion. Most are in various states of disrepair; the one at Dymchurch certainly is, although the one at Hythe has been converted into a stylish home by the sea.

It is no surprise to learn that this flat and almost empty landscape was a paradise for smugglers from the 17^th to the 19^th centuries. They worked in gangs and were notorious and not nearly as romantic as they were afterwards pictured. They were known locally as “owlers” as they communicated each other at night by the sound of the owl. Perhaps the most famous of the novels about them is Russell Thorndike’s “Dr Syn”, quite colourful and exciting, in which the leader of the smugglers is the Vicar himself, who made sure that the poorer members of this congregation benefited from their activities. The novel was soon turned into a very enjoyable film with Margaret Lockwood as the pretty ingénue and George Arliss, a prominent actor at the time, playing the Vicar.

It was to this area that we journeyed on Wednesday, August 9^th, which proved to be a somewhat blowy day, but also bright and sunny. Arthur expressed the hope in the train that we would find a helpful and amiable taxi driver and we did – in spades. Steve seemed to be waiting for us outside Folkestone station and right from the start he faced with equanimity the prospect of helping two nonagenarians, equipped as they were with two rucksacks and a walking stick and looking for a house.

All we knew, in fact, was the name of the house and that it was in or near a village called Aldington, about 10 miles away, but where precisely we hadn’t the slightest idea. So Steve found himself with the job of finding it, which he did with surprising cheerfulness, alighting from the cab to ask likely villagers the house’s whereabouts. The first two people he asked had never heard of it, but he struck lucky with the local publican who directed him down a steep hill on the left, at the bottom of which was a white fence enclosing Goldenhurst.

What has been formerly a single dwelling, which Coward has created from two buildings, had now reverted to two again, called the Old Manor House and Goldenhurst. Both were timber-framed, dating from the 17^th century, formerly homes of the well-to-do yeoman class, their golden walls and mullioned windows glistening in the bright sunshine. These had been Coward’s home from the 30s to the 50s before becoming a tax exile in Switzerland. If he and his glittering parties had left ghosts, they were long gone, the house securely fixed in its tranquil rural setting.  However, it is interesting to observe that one later resident had felt someone watching him as he played the piano in the drawing room.From

there we journeyed across Romney Marsh to Dymchurch, where seated against the sea wall we had our lunch, observing the children enjoying donkey on the beach or paddling in the sea,  in the sunlight changed colour from light green at the shore’s edge, to turquoise and to gentian blue in the distance. I wondered if the donkeys were used at Easter in the local church, small, quaint and medieval and tucked away behind trees off the main road.  We then departed from Folkestone. We hadn’t found Noel Coward, but in Steve we had found a very helpful and amiable taxi driver. Only Sid could have been better.

The Humour and Eccentricity of Street Criers

This was appreciated by the London public. Tuer writes of “a jovial rogue whose beat extends to numerous courts and alleys on either side of Fleet Street, who regularly and unblushingly cries,”Stinking shrimps, lor ‘ow they do stink today, to be sure”. His little joke is almost as much relished as his shrimps and bloaters and they appear to be always of the freshest.”

Mispronunciation, too, could amuse as well as deceive, as in the case of the Cockney bootlace man’s cry:” Lice, lice, penny a bootlice”. In some cases wit and eccentricity secure some traders celebrity status among the London public. “Tiddy Diddy Doll” was a celebrated seller of gingerbread in the 18^th century, whose stylish clothing – ruffled shirt, silk stockings and fashionably laced suit of clothes – made his name byword for a dandified or overdressed appearance, and confirmed his reputation as king of itinerant tradesman. He was in attendance at every public occasion, amusing the crowd with a constant stream of humorous patter: “Here’s your nice gingerbread which will melt in your mouth like a red-hot brickbat, and rumble in your inside like Punch in a wheelbarrow”. 

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