AN ARMCHAIR ESSAY

Dominion, Volume 22, Issue 52, 24 November 1928, Page 27

AN ARMCHAIR ESSAY

ROUND ABOUT OLD RYE

'(Written for “The Dominion” by Charles Wilson.)

It is not often in these latter days that the names of Rye and Winchelsea. those decayed old seaports which were accorded in history the same special privileges as those owned by the once famous Cinque Ports, are mentioned in the newspapers. The recent marine tragedy, however, which pace the cablegrams, robbed whilst on an errand of mercy in their lifeboat Rye Harbour of the majority of its fishermen and plunged the little place into such terrible gloom, has recalled memories of a few hours spent in the ancient town of Rye and round-about in 1905, when on a visit to the Ohl Country. Sussex is one of the most interesting counties in' England, but few New Zealanders, I fancy, know its eastern end —save, perhaps, the fashionable seaside resort of Hastings —but go rather to the more fashion able Eastbourne and further west to that now great town, that “London by the Sea,” as it has been called, of Brighton. Rye and its neighbouring town of Winchelsea lie at the far east of the

county, with Kent close across the border line, and can be quite easily reached from London through Maidstone and Ashford, in Kent, or by way of Tunbridge Wells, in Sussex. It was in winter-time, a time, alas, of cold and “beastly English drizzle,” that I was driven over to Winchelsea and Rye, no weather for driving along the coast with a bitter wind blowing up the Channel',-but Rye, in particular, is such a'quaint, queer old-time place. that.it is well worth a visit.

Rye—the old town—a couple of miles or so from the Rye Harbour where the lifeboat disaster occurred—stands on elevated ground above a plain which further east includes those Romney marshes, the traditional breeding ground of the sheep which ha» proved such a useful friend to the New Zealand farmer. I know many picturesque old towns in England, Knaresborough and Ripon in my native Yorkshire, and others, but Rye has a charm of its own. It has but a small population nowadays, some 3000 odd, if that, but there was a time when it was

a place of considerable importance. In Norman times Rye was a seaport fully as Important as her sister Cinque ports, and in the sixteenth century she was favoured by specially the excited French Huguenots. You can still see their French names in the town registers, and how skilfully in his “Denis Duval,” Thackeray utilized their family history, you can read for yourselves who dip into that, alas, unfinished novel. There is still a small, and rather mysterious coastal trade upon which Rye lives, but the sea, playing its usual pranks, has receded as the centuries passed by, and although I do not remember Rye Harbour very well, it can have but a very small resident population. The male fishing population, from which the lifeboat crew would be drawn, may be small, but not so small as one might gather from the cablegrams. The country around both Winchelsea and Rye is level and marshy. There is no need, as in Holland, to make great dykes to keep the sea out. It keeps itself out by going back and back, on a coast where, near Dover, and elsewhere, it throws itself with such violence against the cliffs that it breaks them down and eats away the land. As a matter of fact, there was a time when this was the case at Winchelsea, the original town being no more. In 1250 Winchelsea had 700 householders and fifty inns. There ,! hre not fifty now, but both the latter-day Winchelsea and Rye are not badly off for “pubs.” One hotel in Rye has, like the Bull at Rochester, famous in “Pickwick,” an assembly room with a gallery for the musicians. Entrance to Rye is through various old gates, the most picturesque old Norman Gate being “The Landgate,” which reminded me of the curious old city portals I had seen in York. But indeed every hole and corner of old Rye has its own picturesque charm. You can spend a few hours in this quaint old Sussex town very pleasantly. It is a small place but there is much to see. . Rye residents are very proud of the Ypres Tower, which dates back to the 12th century and was built by one of King Stephen’s followers, William de Ypres, a great man in that ancient Flemish town, the name of which has so many important and tragic associations with the gallant attempt of British, French and Belgians to stem the onward rush of the German hordes. . At Rye and roundabout the good folk call at the “Wipers” Tower and it is probable that the Belgian Ypres was first called “Wipers” by men who were of some Sussex raised battalion. When I was a young man and living at Lille in the north-east of France, the patois name, in Flemish, was Ypern, or in Walloon Eyperen, so the Sussex Tommies were not so far wrong when they dubbed it “Wipers,” ignoring the

French and Belgian official name of Ypres Eeepre. An artist whom I met at the hotel where we lunched told me some curious old legends about the Ypres Tower which he had sketched from every angle. Rye and Winchelsea, both “dead cities” for ordinary folk, seem to have a special charm for artists, but in winter my acquaintance said that only three or four men of pJlnt and palette remained faithful to the place. One of the most famous etchings done by Sir Frank Short is his “Low Tide, Evening Star” and Rye’s long pier “Deserted.” I can quite believe that during the summer "most of the rooms at the inns are filled with amateur water-colourists from London.”

As a bookman I was interested in the fact that Thackeray wrote his last and unfinished novel, “Denis Duval,” in a house which is pointed out in Winchelsea to-day, and used Rye and its quaint old church as local colour. “Denis Duval” was, so the novelist told Frederick Greenwood, of Cornhill, sent to board with his grandfather’s correspondent at Rye, a Methodist grocer, who was not too pious to do a little smuggling as a side-line. Many a barrel of “Nantz brandy” came to Rye as a result of the fishing trips of the good grocer and his friends. Little Denis tells how they used to go out at night and meet ships on the French coast. The original of Denis Duval, however, was won from the ways of wickedness by Mr. John Wesley. Mr. E. V. Lucas, in his “Highways and Byways in Sussex.” tells how it was under the large tree of the west wall of the Winchelsea churchyard that the famous evangelist preached his last outdoor sermon, afterwards walking through “that poor skeleton of ancient Winchelsea,” as lie called it. There is, I think, a reference to this sermon in Wesley’s Journal, which you may buy in Everyman’s Library, and which is a much more lively work than you might imagine. It is a long time since I first read “Denis Duval.” If only for its pictures of these half dead towns on the Kentish and Sussex shores, and the new prominence into which Rye has temporarily sprung, I must read the story again. It came out In the yellow-backed “Cornbill Magazine,” of which Thack-

eray was himself the first editor, and which I can well remember seeing in my father’s. modest book room when the present writer was a very small boy. Rye has other literary associations than those connected with Thackeray. John Fletcher, the dramatist, who, with Francis Beaumont, was the author of plays, in his time, as notable as those of Shakespeare, was the son of a vicar of Rye, but found the queer old town too quiet for one who preferred the noisy nights, the “canary wine,” and attractions generally of the Mermaid Tavern in London town. Then, in quite latter-day times, Henry James, the American novelist, lived some years in retirement at Rye in a handsome old red brick house in that Mermaid Street which is full of quaint old buildings.

If you take pleasure in ancient churches, Rye is well worth a brief visit, if only for what is the largest church in Sussex with a spire which you see from all the Camber plain, and has, by the way, a very handsome stained window by the late Sir Edward Burne-Jones. Queen Elizabeth, who was not specially given to generosity, is credited with having donated a clock over the north window, which has two golden cherubs that strike the hours, and a famous peal of bells, eight in number, bearing inscriptions, from which, as given in a local guide book. I copy out a few, as follows: — To honour both of God and King, Our voices shall in concert ring. If you have a judicious ear, You’ll own my voice is sweet and clear. In wedlock bands all ye who join, With hands your hearts unite. So shall our tuneful tongues combine, To laud the nuptial rite.

Ye ringers, all who prize Your health and happiness, Be sober, merry, wise, And you’ll the same possess. The drawback to what ought to be the impressive beauty of old Rye's church is that the red-roofed old houses of the church square are crowded up too close. A fine building should always have plenty of elbow room. I would fain add a few notes on Winchelsea, a sleepy old place, full of a quiet restfulness which must appeal to all who seek the calm which busy London denies them, but I would counsel all New Zealanders who have ever some leisure to spend in the South of England, to disregard the fashionable attractions of Brighton and to spend a few days in old Rye and thereabouts. Many more favoured tourist resorts are less worthy of a visit.